In Valen's Name
by Carly Sullivan
Summary: After the dramatic events of Season 4, Michael Garibaldi needs to make sense of his life. This story, written after Rising Star but before the airing of Season 5, imagines one way he might do that.
1. In Valen's Name 1/7

In Valen's Name  
Part 1  
  
  
  
Michael Garibaldi hovered near the dark-haired woman, the only good thing he had   
ever found on Mars. As they cleared customs and headed for the private ship   
that would transport them to Earth, he marveled at the power wealth could wield.   
In the normal day-to-day red tape that was Mars colony, it would have taken a   
day to arrange transport to Earth; with all the damage that Sheridan's war had   
caused, two. Add the confusion that had followed the announcement of the new   
Alliance and the prospect of independence, and travel slowed to near standstill.   
Lise Hampton Edgars bypassed all that. A squadron of lackeys cleared the way   
for her, and for her entourage. Michael Garibaldi didn't like being an   
entourage.  
  
This trip to Earth had a dual purpose for them and the fragmented conversation   
they attempted as they settled in for the trip made it clear that each of them   
saw a different goal as primary. Michael tried hard to shake off his own   
musings and join his mind and heart to his lover's concerns. She needed his   
help to find Franz and her daughter. If Michael's investigative skills could   
locate them, Lise had a chance now to regain custody. It would no doubt mean a   
long court battle, probably a nasty one, but with the wealth and prestige of   
Edgars Industries behind her, she had a serious chance at last.   
  
He realized suddenly that she had stopped talking, that she was staring at him,   
bemusement in her glance. "I said, do you know anyone?"  
  
Michael blinked like a man too suddenly awakened from a dream. "I'm sorry.   
What?"  
  
"I'm going to need a good lawyer. Do you know anyone?"  
  
"Lawyer? No, not offhand. I'm sorry. Maybe someone at the party will know."  
  
"You were thinking about that again, weren't you? Michael, I've never seen you   
so distracted, so worried. It's just a party, for heaven's sake. Cake and   
champagne for the newlyweds. Why are you making such a big deal of it?"  
  
"Just the first time I've seen John's father since..." His eyes darted around   
the passenger compartment, his mind seeking a new topic of conversation, his   
heart an escape route. "Actually," he said, looking at her again, "it wasn't   
that I was thinking about. It was the custody proceedings." He bit his lip and   
made himself continue. "I was thinking that it would probably be better if I   
made myself scarce once I've found Franz."  
  
"Made yourself scarce? What are you saying, Michael?" Lise's jaw tightened.   
"Michael, I need you."  
  
Garibaldi laid his hands on her shoulders and made a soft shushing noise. "I   
didn't mean it like that. Sweetheart, no, listen to me. It would be better,   
better for you, for your case, if I stay out of sight. If I'm with you, Franz   
will use me as a weapon against you. My reputation is not the best, you know."  
  
"Michael, I need you there. I can't face this alone. Please, don't ask me to   
do that."  
  
"Honey, I'm here. I'm here for you. But if I'm seen with you, if Franz finds   
out we're together, he'll throw everything he can drag up at me, and by   
association, at you. I'll become his reason for not letting you have custody."  
  
"What can he do, Michael? There were no charges against you."  
  
"He doesn't need charges. He'll use anything. He'll cast suspicion, and that's   
all he needs to do. You'll have a better chance if I stay out of sight until   
it's over."  
  
Lise shook off his hands and rose from her chair. "It's happening all over   
again."   
  
"Lise?" As Michael followed her, he struggled to sort the emotions tumbling   
within him. Regret. Apprehension. Impatience. "Nothing is happening all over   
again," he whispered, trying not to allow his voice to grow defensive. "I'm   
just saying that it might be better if we weren't seen together too much until   
after you've gotten custody."  
  
"Where will you go?" She asked without looking at him. "Where will you be   
while we're not being seen together?" He could hear the hurt when she spoke.  
  
"I don't know. I'll ... I don't know. Back to Mars maybe, or ... "  
  
She faced him now and in her face, he could see her battle with the pain of   
memory. "Or back to Babylon 5?" she asked.   
  
Startled, Michael squinted at her. "The station? No, I wasn't ... "  
  
"I hate that place, Michael. I'm sorry, I know you don't like it when I say   
that. But I can't help it; it's true. That place has always come between us."  
  
"Lise, honey, come on. Babylon 5 ... you know what that job meant for me."  
  
"What I know, Michael, is that we had a good life on Mars all those years ago, a   
good life, until Sinclair came along and started filling your head with all his   
crazy philosophy. We could have been happy, but you had to run off with him,   
had to be part of his grand ideals on Babylon 5."  
  
Unwilling to hear these words yet again, Garibaldi turned his back on his lover   
and stared out the view port. "Then Sheridan came along," she continued,   
standing close beside him, "and first it was the Shadow War, and then the   
rebellion. What next, Michael?"  
  
She backed away from him suddenly, open-mouthed. "That's it, isn't it? Is this   
party really about: planning the next campaign?"  
  
"Lise!" He resented the accusation, though a part of him wished it were true.   
"Come on, it's not like that."  
  
"Isn't it, Michael?" Her eyes brimmed with tears now, and he reached out to   
comfort her, pushing his own emotions out of the way. "Michael, I need you, "   
she murmured to his chest.   
  
"I know. I'm here," he crooned into her hair. "I didn't mean to upset you,   
honey. I just wanted to do what was best for you, for us. "  
  
"Don't go back there, Michael. Please?" Lise pulled back to look into his   
face. "Promise me you won't go back to Babylon 5, Michael? Promise me you'll   
never go back there again."  
  
"Lise! I can't ... That's crazy!" She pushed herself out of his arms.   
  
"We're together, Michael, finally together. If you go back there, if you get   
involved with them again, they'll pull us apart."   
  
Garibaldi squeezed his eyes shut as he drew her back into a hug again. He   
swallowed hard against the emotions competing for his attention. "It's OK,   
Lise. It's OK." He was afraid to try saying more.   
  
"I couldn't stand to lose you again, Michael," she whispered as she twined her   
arms around him. "I won't let Sinclair and Sheridan take you away from me."  
  
Garibaldi said nothing more. It would do no good, he knew, to try to dispute   
it. Lise's beliefs were inflexible. Jeff had always come between them, one way   
or another, and perhaps John too, in a way. He could reassure Lise that he had   
no plans. That much was true. But somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that   
she was right. Something was calling him, something he needed to do. He   
couldn't name it yet, but he could hear it. And the voice was Jeff Sinclair's.  
  
= = =  
  
The day was not what he had hoped for. John Sheridan had pictured this   
gathering taking place on a warm sunny afternoon, in the shade of the apple tree   
behind his parents' farm house. Instead, a cold, late autumn rain beat down,   
stripping the last leaves from the trees and promising that winter was not far.   
Sodden rubble bled sooty rivulets where once the barn and storage sheds had   
been, but parts of the main house were still usable. Like so much of ISN's   
disinformation, the report that the house had been burnt to the ground had been   
exaggerated and unfounded. There was damage, to be sure, but the Sheridans had   
already begun to rebuild.   
  
The merrymakers crowded into the living room, toasting Sheridan and his bride   
repeatedly, and recollecting the pleasures of their friendships. They felt   
Marcus' absence, none of them more than Susan, but the stories they shared were   
ones of joy and of glory. They talked much and laughed more, and John smiled to   
see Delenn sitting beside his mother, cooing over his baby pictures.   
  
The group dissolved into twos and threes, quiet conversations catching up on old   
news, sharing new jokes. Sheridan laid a hand gently on a broad back, and   
whispered an invitation. No one seemed to notice as they moved into the den.   
  
It was awkward at first, to be sure: the uncertain silence, visibly searching   
for words to cover roiling emotions. But in time the discomfort began to   
dissipate, and in its place crept something John Sheridan had at one point   
despaired of ever knowing again, with this man: the knowledge of friendship.  
  
"How are you, Michael?" Sheridan's voice was so soft Garibaldi almost didn't   
hear him.   
  
The one-time security chief looked over from where he sat on the couch. "Not   
sure," he murmured honestly, feeling his face coloring slightly. "Getting used   
to this."  
  
The former captain nodded, and his face creased in a rueful half-smile. "Me,   
too. It's -- been a long time."  
  
Another silence, then Sheridan ventured. "It looks like everything's going to   
be OK. A lot of changes, but still, everything as it should be, don't you   
think?" Sheridan tried to grin. "Welcome home, Michael. It's good to have you   
back -- the real you," he added, his smile crumbling.  
  
Michael offered back a fleeting, half-hearted grin. "It's good to be me again,"   
he said softly. Garibaldi made a restless movement, crossing and uncrossing his   
legs. His eyes met Sheridan's only for a moment, before darting away again.   
That one moment had been enough.  
  
How must it feel, Sheridan wondered, to know that you had been responsible for   
so much? Even unwittingly, even unwillingly, as it had been. The abysmal pain   
in those blue eyes answered him. And there was nothing he, Sheridan, could say,   
to ease that horror, to lessen the pain he saw in Michael Garibaldi's quickly   
averted gaze. It was time for another tack.   
  
"I was thinking," Sheridan said crisply, "about what happens next. I know we   
haven't talked about this, Michael, but there hasn't really been time, until   
now. I've, well, I've got a proposal for you."  
  
Garibaldi plastered a calm look on his face, and met Sheridan's gaze steadily.   
"OK. Shoot."  
  
Sheridan winced, and tried to keep the immediate look of remembered pain from   
reaching his features. "If you don't believe me, then shoot me." Garibaldi's   
pasty white face, the utter, exhausted calm in the blue eyes. The reassuring   
feel of the PPG in Sheridan's own tense hand. "But I'm telling the truth. Ask   
Lyta. She scanned me. She'll tell you it's true. And if she doesn't, you   
won't have to shoot me. I'll do it myself."  
  
He hadn't shot him. A few hours before, Lyta had seen, and through her eyes,   
Sheridan saw as well the extent of the tampering that had been done to   
Garibaldi's mind, the depth of his helplessness, and his terrified, furious   
anger. It was all true, all too true.   
  
"I know there are a lot of questions right now," Sheridan began carefully, after   
he had composed himself once more. "Where do we go? What do we do? With all   
the things that have been going on the past few weeks, we're all trying to make   
sense of our lives. But I've been doing some thinking, and I want you to hear   
me out. Will you do that?"  
  
He ignored the discomfort in Michael's acquiescence, and launched into his   
speech: the new role of the Alliance, his post as president, the need for a new   
kind of organization. "I need you there, Michael," Sheridan said finally. "I   
need Michael Garibaldi. Your talent, your passion, your insight." In   
Garibaldi's eyes the new President could see that he had heard the words that   
were not said, words like 'trust' and 'loyalty.'  
  
The post Sheridan offered him was an administrative one, clearly invented,   
clearly John's effort to concoct something Michael would agree to. Most of it   
was vague, left to be shaped as the Alliance took form, but as before Michael   
was to be liaison to the Rangers. For a moment, he thought he heard Jeff's   
voice.  
  
Sheridan was leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, awaiting the reply   
he expected. "What do you say, Michael? Are you with me?"  
  
"I can't."  
  
The flat, dull words made Sheridan freeze in place. "What?" he asked in a   
shocked whisper. "Michael, you ... "  
  
"I appreciate it, Ca ... John," Garibaldi interrupted softly. His smile was   
kind. "More than I can say. But right now ... I just can't do that."  
  
"Why not?" Sheridan shook his head, bewildered. "You don't have to worry.   
It's all set. I'll just ... "  
  
"No, John." Abruptly, Garibaldi rose and crossed to the window, turning his   
back on his former CO, staring up at an angry sky.  
  
This time Sheridan waited, not saying anything at all. The silence was   
uncomfortable. And not just for himself: Garibaldi looked desperate to be   
someplace else. But it worked, finally. "I don't know what to say," the former   
security chief whispered slowly, eyes averted. "I appreciate the offer. But   
here ... " he made an aimless gesture, not just at the room, but more broadly.   
"Here's just not right. Not any more. At least, not now."  
  
Sheridan remained still for a long moment, but Garibaldi said nothing else. Had   
he really thought it could be otherwise? It had been simplistic of him to think   
Michael could just pick up again as though nothing had happened.  
  
"What will you do?" He was almost afraid to ask the question but it was the   
only one that mattered.  
  
"I don't know, John," Garibaldi answered, and for a time Sheridan thought he   
would say nothing more. Michael stood by the window, staring out at the   
landscape scarred by fire and bathed by rain, but John thought his eyes saw   
across the galaxy. "Lise wants me to stay with her," he said at last, softly   
and without inflection. He looked at Sheridan now, head cocked to one side.   
"But I can't. There's something I have to do, John."   
  
Sheridan watched a new energy suffuse his old friend, light returning to the   
blue eyes, a familiar fidget in the muscular frame. "What is it, Michael?" he   
asked, grinning in spite of himself. "What do you have to do?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Sheridan shook his head in confusion. "Michael, you just said ... "  
  
"I know, I know ... " Garibaldi laughed at his own expense, then sobering, he   
went on. "I just have the feeling that I've got unfinished business, something   
I need to attend to, but I can't put a name to it. At least not yet."  
  
"Michael, you're welcome here until you figure it out. Stay on with me, help me   
get this new Alliance working. When you know what it is you need to do, then   
you'll go."  
  
Garibaldi smiled, but Sheridan saw it as a sad smile. " I appreciate the offer,   
John, I really do. Maybe someday, if you still want me."  
  
Sheridan prodded. "Forget everything else, just be my liaison to the Rangers,"   
he suggested. "Sinclair entrusted you with that. How can I do less?"   
  
Michael Garibaldi stared at him, just stared. For a long time, he stared and   
said nothing. The gaze seemed to Sheridan to go right through him, to see him   
and yet see beyond him. When Garibaldi finally spoke it was an awed whisper,   
words as much a revelation to himself as to anyone else hearing him. "That's   
what I want."   
  
Sheridan's head snapped back and he blinked in astonishment. His mouth opened   
and closed once before any words would come out. "You've got it, Michael. The   
job is yours."  
  
"No," Michael said, coming round from his reverie, "no, John, I don't mean the   
job. I mean ... " The full effect of how preposterous the idea was hit him   
hard and made the words stand still in his throat. Even as he forced them out,   
he braced against the derision he expected. "I mean the Rangers."  
  
"You've got it, Michael. It's not a problem. You'll be our liaison to the   
Rangers, and ... "  
  
"No, John." Gently, Michael laid a hand on Sheridan's arm. "I want to join the   
Rangers. That's the business I need to finish."  
  
"Join? You mean, go through the training? The uniform, the pin, the whole   
business?"  
  
Garibaldi laughed at his companion's bewilderment. "The whole business, John,   
yes. At least I think so. I ... just now ... I don't know if I can explain   
it." He paced up and down in front of the sofa. "Jeff put the information   
about the Rangers in my hands not long after he became involved with them. He   
trusted me with them. The Rangers have always been a special part of my life, a   
special part of my friendship with Jeff. But it always felt awkward, felt wrong   
somehow. I was connected to them, but I wasn't one of them. And I think now, I   
need to be." He stopped tramping back and forth and looked at Sheridan. "Am I   
making any sense?"  
  
John Sheridan's hazel eyes sparkled with the laughter only barely suppressed.   
"Would that matter?" he asked, a chuckle escaping. Garibaldi shook his head.   
"Michael, if joining the Rangers is what you need to do, then I'll back you any   
way I can. I won't pretend I understand this impulse, but I'll support whatever   
decision you make. Just promise me you won't forget: the job offer stands."  
  
A handclasp sealed the promise and a call from the other room drew them back to   
the group. Sheridan joined Delenn, shepherding her through the very human   
rituals surrounding wedding cake. Michael hung back on the edge of the group,   
wondering what he would say to Lise.   
  
= = =  
  
The nagging rain had stopped by the time he joined Franklin for lunch the next   
day. The air of celebration lingered from the previous afternoon, and the   
doctor's mood was jovial. Stephen initiated some good-natured verbal sparring   
before they had even ordered their lunch, and his old friend gave as good as he   
got, but Franklin sensed that Michael really didn't want to play.   
  
"So, any leads on Franz?" Franklin asked after their meal arrived.   
  
Garibaldi seemed momentarily startled. "Oh, yeah, actually ... the guy's not   
going to be hard to find. He's moved around. Hasn't exactly kept in touch.   
But he's not trying to hide. He's got no reason to. He's got custody,   
everything's on his side. No, we'll get him. We just started looking for real   
this morning and we've already got some solid leads."  
  
"That should make Lise happy, no?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. She should be able to start the paperwork in a couple of days."  
  
"So what is it?"  
  
"What's what?"  
  
"Michael, you've got something on your mind. Now are you going to spend our   
whole lunch brooding, and make me pull it out of you, or are you just going to   
tell me?"  
  
A smile spread over Michael's features as he considered how well Franklin knew   
him. "You're more of a scold than my third grade teacher, you know that?"   
Garibaldi teased. "Next thing you'll be telling me I need to change my diet."  
  
"Well, now that you bring it up ... " Franklin began, eyeing the plate in front   
of his friend.   
  
They laughed together, a laughter that felt good to Michael, a laughter too long   
gone. "What is it, Michael?" Franklin asked again, his voice hushed and   
tender.  
  
Garibaldi stared at his fork. "Don't exactly know. I ... " He laid the   
utensil down, fidgeted with his glass, snuck a peek at the concern in Stephen's   
eyes.   
  
"Michael, are you all right? Physically, I mean ... "   
  
"Oh. Yeah. No. I'm fine. All healed up. It's not that."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
There was a long silence in which, as Stephen watched, Michael Garibaldi chewed   
his teeth. Whose expression was that? Stephen couldn't remember, but it fit:   
the fidgeting jaw, the half-opened, closed-again mouth, the hard swallows.   
Finally, Michael got some words out. "Stephen, I ... there's something I have   
to do ... on Minbar." He watched for a reaction.  
  
"Minbar?" Franklin's brow was knit in confusion. "Why Minbar? What do you   
have to do?"  
  
Garibaldi dropped his eyes to his plate, staring for a long time at the remains   
of his lunch. "I think ... " He looked into the eyes of his old friend. "I   
need to become a Ranger."   
  
"A Ranger?!" Franklin's voice cracked with astonishment, and Garibaldi laid a   
hand on his arm and shushed him as nearby patrons turned to look. More quietly,   
the doctor continued, "Michael, what are you talking about?"  
  
Michael felt calmer to have the words out. "I want to join the Rangers,   
Stephen. I think I'm supposed to do this."  
  
"Supposed to? What the hell does that mean, Michael?"  
  
"I can't explain it, Stephen. I just feel it. Like something was calling me.   
I need to do this."  
  
"Michael, what exactly are we talking about here? You want to work with the   
Rangers? I'm sure Sheridan would ... "  
  
Garibaldi cut him off with a gesture of the hand. "No, Stephen, not like that.   
I talked to John and yeah, he'd let me be his liaison to the Rangers, but that's   
not what I'm talking about. I want to be a Ranger myself."  
  
"Why?" Franklin demanded, hunching forward over the table. "Michael, the   
Rangers were supposed to fight the Shadows. The Shadow War is over. Their   
mission has been accomplished. The Shadows are gone. What's the point of it   
now?"  
  
Garibaldi laughed. "Come on, Stephen, you can do better than that. The Shadows   
may be gone officially, but they've got friends who stayed behind. And you   
heard Delenn's speech: the Rangers have a mission to create the peace. All the   
member races can send candidates to the Rangers. Don't try to paint it as an   
idea that's outlived its usefulness."  
  
Franklin gave an embarrassed smirk. "All right, you're right, but Michael, I   
still don't see the point. You were the first one of us to know about the   
Rangers. You've been working with them for years. What's changed all of a   
sudden? You think you have to prove something? Trust me, Michael. You don't.   
Your friends respect you. The Rangers respect you. You have nothing to prove."  
  
"Maybe not, Stephen." The response came more slowly, in a voice barely floating   
up from the deep places within himself that he searched out now. "Sometimes I   
think you're right. Sometimes I think I've got a hell of a lot to prove. But   
that's not what this is about. It's ... something else."  
  
"Michael, the Rangers are soldiers. A different army maybe, but soldiers just   
the same. You've done that. You were a GROPO, damn it. What are you going to   
learn? You going to go through basic training again with a bunch of raw   
recruits? Michael, you'd be busting heads and taking names inside a day."  
  
Garibaldi nodded, his gaze shifting slowly from Franklin's face to the passersby   
outside the window. "Yeah. You're right."   
  
"Michael! Don't humor me!" Franklin bristled at his friend's half-hearted   
response, and his petulance did recapture Garibaldi's attention. "Michael, do   
you realize what you're talking about? Do you know Marcus said that you can't   
become a Ranger until you learn to think in Minbari? Michael, have you ever   
tried to learn Minbari? Do you remember what you went through trying to   
translate the Book of G'Quon?"  
  
"I do. Stephen, you're right. The whole idea's crazy, I know."  
  
"Do you know what the Rangers' training is like? The kind of physical demands   
it makes? Michael, you're not a kid anymore."   
  
" I know. You're right. Really, Stephen, I mean it. You're right."  
  
"Well good."  
  
The silence that followed was filled with the jostling jitters of unspoken pleas   
and the electric energy of trust almost conferred. They both fussed with their   
utensils, eating nothing, until Franklin spoke again.   
  
"You need to do this, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I'm not sure." Several long moments later, he answered Franklin's unwavering   
stare. "Jeff ... I don't know how to explain it. The Rangers were his gift to   
me, his last gift before ... " His head shook away memories. "Somehow, I need   
to touch that again. I'm sorry. I know I'm not making any sense."  
  
They sat together in silence a while, and then Franklin rubbed his forehead and   
pressed his eyes tightly closed. "I asked Marcus once about the Ranger   
training, asked him what they had taught him," he said at last. "I've never   
forgotten his reply.   
  
"Delight ... Respect ... Compassion ... That for your actions to be pure they   
must proceed from direction, determination, patience, and strength.   
  
"He said he was still working on patience."  
  
Michael's eyes wrinkled in a smile, and a flush of familiarity washed his face.   
Franklin smiled too, but quickly sobered and continued.   
  
"They taught him how to live, how to breathe, how to fight, and how to die....   
"  
  
"Yeah. I know." Breathlessly, Garibaldi signaled for the check.  
  
Franklin was determined not to let the man be casual. He leaned across the   
table as he continued. "And they taught him terror... how to use it ... and   
how to face it."   
  
Michael Garibaldi said nothing, did nothing, for a long time. Finally he spoke,   
a whisper barely audible. "Terror?" He stared into Franklin's eyes. "Been   
there," he said with a tiny nod. His gaze didn't waver from Stephen's eyes   
during the ensuing silence, and the tightening in his jaw told Franklin not to   
pursue. Finally, Garibaldi shook his head, an almost invisible pulsing. "Done   
that."   
  
Long strides carried Michael Garibaldi out of the restaurant and into the   
street; Stephen Franklin galloped to catch up. "Michael!" The older man halted   
at the breathless salute, and turned to face his companion. "Michael, I'm sorry   
... "  
  
"No, Stephen, look, I'm the one who should apologize. I come at you with this   
crazy idea and then I lose it when you try to talk some sense into me. I'm   
sorry."  
  
Franklin laid a hand on Garibaldi's back and urged him into motion. Together   
they walked through the noontime crowds, turned off into a vest pocket park. As   
the city's noises faded, Franklin spoke again.   
  
"You're going to do it then?"  
  
Garibaldi nodded.  
  
"Have you talked to Delenn yet?"  
  
"Tomorrow."  
  
"Have you told Lise?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
Franklin whistled softly, but said nothing.   
  
"Stephen?"   
  
The two men stopped and turned to face each other beneath the bare branches of a   
sturdy maple.   
  
"Stephen, I can't explain it, but I know this is important. I have to do this."  
  
"I know, Michael. Just promise me you won't let pride hold you there if you   
find out it's a mistake. Don't let your stubbornness get you hurt. I've   
patched you up too many times."  
  
Garibaldi smiled, warmed by his friend's concern. "Not to worry, Doc. I won't   
do anything stupid. And if I do bail, I'll even let you say you told me so."  
  
"Just go easy on yourself, Michael. Just go easy."  
  
Their farewell became an embrace before the two parted, Franklin to grab his   
bags and catch a ship back to Babylon 5, Garibaldi to return to finding the   
father of Lise's child. He thought a lot about Lise that afternoon, and about   
the news he would have to share with her.  
  
= = =  
  
He fidgeted while waiting for someone to answer the door. His palms were   
sweating, and he wiped them hurriedly on his jacket before forcing his hands to   
hang loosely at his sides.  
  
The door slid obediently open, and he blinked at the serenely composed features   
of Delenn. "Mr. Garibaldi," she pronounced formally. "Please. Come inside."  
  
"Ambassador." He followed her into the room, the space that served as her   
office and her quarters here aboard the White Star. He had calculated carefully   
to be certain that his shuttle would rendezvous with the White Star promptly,   
making him neither early nor late for his appointment with her. Once aboard   
however, he was so fascinated by the technology of the ship, he had nearly   
wandered off, forgetting the purpose of his trip. He had barely made it on   
time.   
  
Delenn's quarters here on the command ship were as he had expected they might   
be: both welcoming and oddly daunting. More casually furnished than the usual   
ambassador's showpiece. Couches, chairs that looked invitingly comfortable.   
Indirect lighting glowed in recessed sconces, and candles flickered on the few   
scattered low tables. There was a scent in the air, indefinite but haunting:   
like sandalwood, mixed with lavender and something else he didn't recognize at   
all.  
  
"Please, make yourself comfortable," Delenn said, her voice still even and very   
unreadable. She made a graceful gesture at a couch. "Would you care for some   
tea? Or coffee, if you prefer."  
  
"Tea's fine, thanks."   
  
He felt like an idiot, perching on one of Delenn's delicate couches like a   
visiting ogre, all too certain he was going to break something before he managed   
to escape. After what felt like at least an hour, Delenn reappeared, carrying a   
tray with two horribly fragile-looking cups of tea. He took his with a nod of   
inarticulate thanks, and silently begged his hands not to shake. He sipped   
without tasting, and waited for Delenn to be seated.  
  
"How are you, Mr. Garibaldi?" Her soft words made him freeze.  
  
He took a deliberate moment to set the teacup on the table in front of him,   
before composing himself to meet her steady gaze. "I ... fine, Ambassador," he   
replied as stoutly as he could. "Thank you."  
  
Her look didn't waver, but she said nothing else. After a moment, he thought   
about screaming. What do you want me to say? I'm sorry I arranged to have your   
fiancé kidnapped and tortured?   
  
Garibaldi took a deep breath. "I guess I should explain why I'm here, Delenn."   
His voice shook shamefully, but there was nothing for it. "I appreciate your   
seeing me."  
  
"We have not had the opportunity to talk since John's return," the Minbari   
replied in a soft voice. "There has been so much to do, and so much ceremony.   
But I have been concerned, Mr. Garibaldi. John has told me of what was done to   
you. Is there anything I can do that will ease your path in any way?"  
  
He blinked at her, too startled to try to cover his astounded reaction. His   
voice clouded, and he cleared his throat hard. "Thank you," he continued more   
formally. "I'm OK, really."  
  
She gave him a slow nod. "I am certain that you are." She took a measured sip   
of her tea, and looked up at him once again. "I understand you will not be   
returning to the station."  
  
"No. No, I don't ... I don't think that's what I should do right now."  
  
"Where will you go?"  
  
Garibaldi cleared his throat again, sucked in a long breath. "That's what I   
wanted to talk to you about, Delenn." The rest of the words seemed to get   
stuck. He took a sip of tea. When he looked up, Delenn was regarding him   
quizzically.   
  
"Delenn, since you are the Entil'Zha, I thought you would be the person to ask."   
Just get to it, Michael, the voice in his head screamed. "Delenn, I ... what I   
... I mean, would you ... " He sighed in exasperation at his own cowardice.   
"Entil'Zha, would you consider me as a candidate for the Rangers?"  
  
Michael was shocked to see no surprise in Delenn's face. "Do you realize what   
you are asking, Michael?" she inquired calmly. When Garibaldi nodded, gulping   
on his tea and his anxiety, her face softened into a smile. "The Rangers swear   
an oath, Michael. It is not something to be entered into lightly. You have   
been close to the Rangers, a good friend, but you must not be too casual. Of   
all people, you must realize the depth of the commitment."  
  
The lump in Garibaldi's throat made him wonder if he had swallowed the tea cup   
with the tea. "Delenn, " he choked out, "I do realize how serious this request   
is, and it's not one I make casually." He set his cup down gently. "I've   
thought about this, about what it will mean. And I've done everything I can   
think of to talk myself out of it. But I can't.   
  
"If you're going to ask me why I want to be a Ranger, " Garibaldi went on,   
abandoning his seat, "I'll tell you right now that I don't have a good answer.   
I've tried to explain it, for myself, for other people, and I can't put together   
anything that really makes sense. I just know I'm supposed to do this."   
  
She was smiling when he looked over, but still she said nothing. Embarrassed to   
realize he had been pacing, he sheepishly returned to his seat. When he was   
still again, she spoke.   
  
"We must not stand in the way of destiny." The Minbari's eyes danced with a   
delight Michael didn't understand. "How soon can you begin?"  
  
Garibaldi was speechless. He had expected to have to argue his way in, had more   
than half expected to lose. "I guess ... a couple of weeks, I guess. I mean,   
I'm just about done with what I need to do on Earth, and then ... "  
  
"Excellent. As soon as you can organize your affairs, you may travel to Minbar,   
to the city of Tuzanor. The Rangers' training camp sits in the hills above the   
city. When you arrive, you will go to the administration building, to the   
office of the Entil'Zha. I will not be there, but I will send word for them to   
expect you."  
  
Garibaldi stared at her, amazement in his eyes, and a laugh flitting around his   
mouth. "John put you up to this, didn't he?" Michael asked, his smile   
widening.  
  
"John?" Delenn seemed bewildered. "I do not understand."  
  
"He told you I was going to ask you about the Rangers. He told you to humor me,   
to play along, and get me to Tuzanor. He's going to be there, waiting for me,   
isn't he?" He was grinning broadly now, his blue eyes sparkling.   
  
Delenn rose from her chair, her brow furrowed, a frown wrinkling her lips. "Mr.   
Garibaldi, allow me see if I understand. You think that I have invited you to   
Tuzanor in order to cooperate with John in some sort of humorous prank? Is that   
correct?"  
  
Garibaldi stood as well, and stepped closer to the delicate Minbari. "Yes,   
Delenn. John knew I was going to come to talk to you."  
  
"And your request? Is it also part of this joke?"  
  
"No! " he protested sharply. "Delenn, I'm absolutely serious. I understand   
John thinks the idea is crazy. So does Stephen. But Delenn, I'm serious about   
this. Please, believe me."  
  
"I do, Michael," she replied gently. "I do not wish to disappoint you, but John   
has said nothing to me about your request." The soft grey eyes looked up at   
him. "Will that be a problem?"  
  
Garibaldi shook his head. Through pursed lips, he whispered a barely audible   
"no."   
  
"Good," she nodded. "Then you still wish to be considered?" She took her seat   
again, and refilled the teacups. Michael sat perched on the edge of the   
opposite couch, and they sipped their tea.   
  
Garibaldi set his cup down carefully. "Delenn, " he said earnestly, "I am   
serious. Will you accept me as a candidate?"  
  
"It is already done." Delenn nodded again.   
  
"Will you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Garibaldi?" she asked, setting her own   
cup on the table.   
She disappeared into the adjoining room, taking his answer for granted, and he   
had time to drink the rest of his cooling tea, relishing the strange, lemony   
flavor, before she reappeared, carrying a small box. With a flourish, she held   
it out to him.  
  
"What's this?" Garibaldi asked suspiciously, staring at her.  
  
Her smile was infinitely patient. Infuriatingly so. "Take it, please."   
  
Michael accepted the wooden container, gingerly lifting the lid. Inside, set   
carefully on the velvet lining, was a Ranger badge. Jeff's.   
  
"When Ambassador Sinclair's personal effects were returned to his family, it did   
not seem wise to include this. His brother would not have recognized it, and   
there would have been questions, questions we could not have answered. It   
seemed best to hold this aside. I think he would have wanted you to have it."  
  
"Delenn, I can't accept this. It was entrusted to you."  
  
"At the time, yes, but this memento of Ambassador Sinclair's has perhaps a   
greater significance to you. He valued your friendship deeply. I imagine he   
would be pleased to have you care for it."  
  
The simple token of a life stirred more memories than Michael was ready to face.   
Gently he closed the box and extended it to Delenn. "Thank you, but I can't   
accept this. I appreciate the thought, Delenn. Jeff and I, well, it was a   
special friendship. But this is yours."   
  
Delenn hesitated. When she finally accepted the little casket she said, "I will   
hold this for you. Perhaps one day, you will feel differently."  
  
Garibaldi left the box in her hands. "Maybe, " he said. He needed to escape,   
or at least change the subject. "Is there anything else, Delenn? Anything I   
need to do?"  
  
"No, Michael, nothing more. You need only to report to Tuzanor." She stood,   
and Garibaldi followed suit.   
  
"Thank you, Delenn," Garibaldi whispered as they walked to the door. "Thank you   
for everything."  
  
Delenn gave a slight bow as the door opened. "May your path be a smooth one,   
Michael, " she said, her hand over her heart. She extended her hand toward   
Garibaldi. "In Valen's name."  
  
= = =  
  
The Edgars compound made him uncomfortable. He tried to tell himself it was   
just a collection of buildings, that William Edgars was gone now, that this was   
just Lise's house. But the place still made him edgy. Even the fact that this   
Edgars compound was on a different planet from the one that held so many   
memories did nothing to ease his anxiety. He didn't like it here.  
  
When Garibaldi arrived back at the Earth version of the Edgars compound, he   
found the house bustling, and his bag packed and standing in the front hall.   
How the hell had she found out?  
  
His check of several rooms finally located Lise in the study, just concluding a   
call to Jerusalem. Michael smiled at the sight of her, in spite of his anxiety,   
and opened his arms to embrace her as she ordered the viewer off and turned to   
him. "Michael! Where have you been?" She greeted him with obvious concern.   
  
Garibaldi's arms dropped to his sides when it became clear she was not moving   
into his embrace. He wasn't sure how to answer her question, but Lise did not   
pause to allow him a response. "I've been trying to reach you all day. My   
lawyers have started proceedings and I've found us a small estate just outside   
Jerusalem. It will need some work, but we can take up residence there until the   
custody hearings are over. Are you ready to go? Our flight is waiting. I had   
your things packed."  
  
Watching her, listening, he felt a jumble of emotions. The woman who had once   
seemed so helpless was certainly in control now. He thought he should be proud   
of her, of her competence, her confidence. The woman he had been ready to risk   
everything for was only half-aware that he was there. He felt hurt, frightened,   
and a little sick.  
  
"Lise," he said softly, crossing to the desk where she was sorting through   
papers, "I told you, I think it would be better if I didn't go with you."   
  
Her dark hair slapped against her shoulders as her head snapped up to stare at   
him in horror. "Michael! Please, don't start that again. I need you to be with   
me. I need you beside me. I thought we had settled that."  
  
"Lise ... " His reached out to embrace her, but she dodged his touch.   
  
"Don't do this, Michael. I don't want to hear this. Your place is here, with   
me."  
  
There was no easy way to tell her, that Garibaldi knew. "There's something I   
have to do. It will only take a few months."  
  
"A few months! Michael! Do you realize what you're saying? Do you know what   
the next few months will be like? We'll be in court. You know it could get   
ugly. I need you here."  
  
"Lise, I know, I do, but this is important to me," he pleaded, taking hold of   
her shoulders. "Please, can't we just talk about this?"  
  
"It always important, Michael." Jaw tight, she fought her tears. "There's   
always a reason to leave, and it's always important. It was important when you   
went chasing off to Babylon 5 after Jeff Sinclair. It was important when you   
had to fight Sheridan's wars."   
  
The tears overcame her resolve. "I don't know what the latest hero's quest is,   
Michael. And I don't care what crazy new plan Sheridan has. All I know is I   
want you with me. And I resent the fact that your 'work' and your 'friends'   
have always been more important to you than I am."  
  
"Lise! That's not true! It's not fair!" Michael searched frantically for a   
way to make her hear him.   
  
Her voice was harsh. "Isn't it, Michael?" She shook herself loose from his   
grasp, and continued, her tone cutting. "It's time you chose between me and   
your heroes."   
  
She slammed a last handful of documents into a portfolio. "Our flight is   
waiting."  
  
Michael watched her walk through the hallway and out the front door. After a   
moment he followed, pausing in the foyer to collect his bag. Lise was right.   
He had a choice to make.  
  
= = =  
  
He had told Delenn next week, and he didn't know if showing up early would be a   
problem, but as his ship docked on Minbar, he figured he could always spend a   
few days seeing the sights. His first look at the Minbari home world left him   
awed, all Delenn and Lennier's descriptions of its beauty doing nothing to   
prepare him for its magnificence. It was unlike any world he had visited, an   
ethereal vision in which natural and constructed blurred together. He wanted to   
see more of this.  
  
His ship had left Earth the same day he spoke to Delenn. He hadn't tried to   
contact Lise while in transit, and he wasn't sure if he would now that he had   
reached Minbar. She would be furious that he had not gone with her, and hearing   
where he was, and why, would probably make it worse. No, it might be better to   
give her time, to let her cool down. Then maybe.  
  
Maybe not.   
  
Michael Garibaldi shook himself hard to rid his mind of that dread and his body   
of the lethargy of a long flight. He straightened his clothes and gathered up   
his bag; when the debarkation announcement came, he was ready to move.   
  
On most planets the customs area was a madhouse, a restless, raucous surge of   
sentients struggling to communicate. Here it was different. The Minbari's   
sense of decorum, of ritual, of tranquillity, pervaded even this place. There   
were still crowds, long lines of beings from many planets, but the wait was   
orderly, the voices hushed, and from time to time, Garibaldi even saw a smile.   
When he had cleared the screening process, he went in search of passage to   
Tuzanor.   
  
It was easy enough to arrange transportation, and the trip itself was shorter   
than he had imagined. A part of him regretted not having spent time in the   
capital, but he promised himself he would return and get to know the city, one   
day, as soon as he could. But not today. Embarrassed as he was to admit it, he   
knew he needed to get to the Ranger camp, to commit himself to this, before he   
lost his nerve.   
  
As he made his way through the streets of Tuzanor he was struck as much by the   
warmth of her inhabitants as by the beauty of the city herself. This was the   
place the Minbari called The City of Sorrows, a jewel on the landscape, devoted   
to welcoming pilgrims. It felt good to be here.   
  
He could see the camp on the hillside above the city, and wondered about   
security around it. Had Delenn's message reached Tuzanor yet? Would he be   
expected? Accepted? Welcomed? Garibaldi shifted his bag to the other shoulder   
and began his climb.  
  
The gate of the camp looming up ahead of him was startling, catching him by   
surprise, sooner than he expected it. Perhaps it was the beauty of the place   
that had lulled him, made him unaware of how far he had come. Garibaldi halted,   
ostensibly to adjust his pack once again, and looked back toward the city. He   
had indeed come farther than he realized. And now, he thought, turning again to   
the gates of the camp, he was here. No security was in evidence: gates open, no   
guards, no reception area. Michael Garibaldi walked in.   
  
He scanned the compound, trying to find the administration building, trying to   
find the feel of the place. Eerily quiet, the camp almost seemed uninhabited,   
until Garibaldi realized it was late day, evening for the Minbari, whose day was   
significantly shorter than Earth's. The day's work was probably over; the   
residents at dinner, or off for the night. How late was it, by Minbari time?   
Would anyone be in the office now?  
  
He had come this far; he might as well try. Garibaldi settled on what looked   
like an administration building and headed for it. If no one was around, he'd   
head back to Tuzanor, find lodging for the night, and come back again in the   
morning. But he had to try first.   
  
Inside the building, he did find a few souls about: Rangers who answered his   
questions in English, and directed him to the Entil'Zha's office. No one seemed   
surprised by his inquiries or by his arrival at this hour. He followed the   
directions he'd been given and found the office, its door standing open.   
  
Garibaldi knocked and the Minbari Ranger standing behind the sleek metal and   
glass desk uttered a single syllable without looking up. From the tone, Michael   
guessed it was Minbari for 'come in,' but he couldn't be sure, and hesitated to   
intrude. He wondered if he should say something, or knock again, somehow   
indicate his lack of familiarity with the Minbari language. He remembered what   
Stephen had said about learning to think in Minbari.   
  
While Garibaldi puzzled all this out, the Ranger looked up, and seeing the man   
still in the doorway, said in English, "May I help you?"   
  
The subtle edginess Michael had been feeling became for one moment a wave of   
terror, sending him reeling until he forced his voice to obey him. "Yes, thank   
you. I'm Michael Garibaldi ... "  
  
"Michael! " A look of mingled surprise and pleasure warmed the Minbari's   
features and his voice carried an animation uncharacteristic of his race. "We   
have been expecting you."  
  
The surprise was Garibaldi's now. Delenn must have moved quickly; he had been   
concerned that her message might not have reached the camp yet.   
  
"Please come in, Michael, " the Ranger continued. "I trust your journey was a   
pleasant one."  
  
"Yes, thank you," Garibaldi answered, crossing the threshold and stepping closer   
to the desk, though feeling a bit ill at ease. "This is my first visit to   
Minbar," he offered. "It's very beautiful."   
  
"Thank you," the Ranger flashed a half-smile, "and welcome. In time I hope you   
will come to feel at home here." The Ranger gave a slight bow, and Michael   
caught himself instinctively returning it. "How can I help you, Michael?" the   
Minbari inquired.   
  
Hadn't he just said Michael was expected? Cautiously, Garibaldi explained.   
"Delenn instructed me to report when I arrived. This is the Entil'Zha's   
office?"  
  
"Yes, Michael, it is. Why did Delenn send you to us? Why have you come to   
Tuzanor?"  
  
Was this another Minbari ritual? Were there certain things he was supposed to   
say, supposed to do? Delenn could have warned him. He straightened a bit,   
tried to look dignified, took his cue from the Ranger. "I've come to Tuzanor to   
train as a Ranger."  
  
"Do you understand what you are proposing?" The voice came from behind him.   
  
As Garibaldi turned, the Ranger who had first welcomed him now greeted an aged   
Minbari, also dressed in the Ranger uniform. "Good evening, Sech Ardret. This   
is Michael Garibaldi."   
  
The elder scrutinized Michael. "So, you are the one we have expected. Why has   
your decision taken so long? Do you truly have the heart for what you ask to   
undertake?"  
  
"Sech Ardret, I don't make this request lightly. As for how long it's taken..."   
Michael didn't really know how to finish that sentence. Was Ardret referring to   
his age? To his years working with the Rangers before coming to this decision?   
" ... I make no excuses. I've only recently understood that this is what I'm   
called to do. If that's a mark against me, I accept it."  
  
"All trainees begin on an equal footing." Michael had not realized there was an   
inner office until the figure emerged. "You will not begin at a disadvantage,"   
this third Ranger said as he approached Garibaldi, "nor should you expect any   
special treatment because of your patronage." A match for Michael in height,   
the Minbari was stockier, sturdier in build.   
  
"Sech Durhan, " the first Ranger intervened, a glint in his eyes that Michael   
thought might be annoyance, "no one was suggesting anything like that."  
  
"Please," Garibaldi interrupted, "I don't mean to be rude, but it isn't fair to   
characterize Delenn as my 'patron.' I only went to her to ask permission, and   
I'm grateful that she gave it, but she knew nothing about this until then." If   
he fell on his face here, he wasn't going to take her down with him.  
  
"Then you have the Entil'Zha's permission?" the first Ranger asked.   
  
Garibaldi found himself more confused as this conversation went on. "Yes. I   
spoke with Delenn a few days ago. She said she would send word." He was early.   
He had told Delenn next week, but ... "You said you were expecting me."  
  
"We have been, for quite some time, " replied Ardret.   
  
Quite some time? Michael started to question the statement, but Durhan   
interjected. "You have been expected, and because of it, much will be expected   
of you. Let us hope you are all that was promised." Garibaldi stood in open-  
mouthed silence as Durhan and Ardret bowed and left the room.   
  
The Ranger who remained came out from behind the desk. "You seem confused,   
Michael."  
  
"I am." He searched the Minbari's face, not knowing what he hoped to find.   
"What did Delenn say about me?"  
  
The Ranger shook his head. "We have had no message from Delenn."  
  
"Then why did you say I was expected?"  
  
"Because you were. Entil'Zha Sinclair left word of his friend from Babylon 5   
who looked after the Rangers, his friend who would one day come to complete his   
own training."  
  
Garibaldi paled at the Ranger's words, and his head shook from side to side.   
"That's not possible. Jeff and I never talked about any such thing. He   
couldn't have known."  
  
"Apparently, he did, Michael. He left word with the master teachers that you   
would come. He did not say when you would come, only that you would. Clearly,   
he was right."  
  
Garibaldi's head was spinning, searching through the memories of his   
conversations with Jeff for any hint that the Commander might have foreseen this   
turn of events. He almost didn't hear the Ranger begin to speak again.  
  
"The training you are about to undertake is challenging, Michael, physically and   
mentally demanding. You will train as a soldier, but more than that.   
  
"Each Ranger must embody three characteristics: delight, respect, and   
compassion. These will be at the core of your training.   
  
"If you complete the training, you will speak the oath every Ranger swears.   
Those are not idle words. We have a great respect for ritual -- one you may not   
entirely embrace -- but do not allow yourself to mistake that vow for empty   
ceremony. We live for The One. We die for The One. Do not speak the words   
unless you speak from your soul."  
  
"I understand." Michael's apprehension grew with every breath.   
  
"Now, " the Ranger said, "you must be fatigued from your journey. You will find   
your room on the second floor of the barracks building across the compound: room   
212. You will rise at dawn, and your training will begin immediately after the   
morning meal. You will follow a demanding schedule, so you will want to rest   
while you can. If there is nothing else ... "  
  
"Nothing, thank you, ... " Garibaldi realized he did not know the Ranger's   
name.   
  
"Navain, " the Minbari said softly, seeming to read Michael's mind. "I am Sech   
Navain."  
  
"Thank you, Sech Navain," Michael said with a small bow. "Good night."  
  
Navain placed a hand over his heart then extended it to Garibaldi. "In Valen's   
name." 


	2. In Valen's Name 2/7

In Valen's Name  
Part 2  
  
  
  
  
= = =  
  
Garibaldi's paces measured the little room. He had found his billet and dropped   
his bag on the bed, grateful that at least it wasn't one of those damn Minbari   
beds. Now, with the commitment made, he tried to take stock of the place. And   
he paced.   
  
North to south. This was to be home, his home, for the next three months.   
South to north. He realized he was counting. East to west. A table and chair,   
a chest, some book shelves, the bed. West to east. The count was unchanged.   
And a window: a view of the city sparkling in the light of Minbar's two moons,   
the City of Sorrows.  
  
Through sundown and moon rise he had fretted and fussed around his new quarters.   
They were pleasant enough, he had to admit: a private room, a shared bath.   
Simple. Comfortable. Efficient.  
Now the night was well on, and he should unpack. He was staying, after all, not   
visiting. No living out of a suitcase. Settle in. Make the commitment.  
  
He hadn't brought much. The bag Lise had packed for him was the bag he had   
brought from Mars to Earth, anticipating a trip of only a few days. He opened   
the case, pulled out a handful of things to transfer to the chest. Opening it,   
he found clothes already inside: Marcus' clothes. Setting down his own   
belongings, he lifted the grey waistcoat, let it unfold, tried to imagine   
himself in the uniform of the Ranger. It was not a pretty image. Maybe if he   
left now ...   
  
He paused to wonder when the outfit had been placed there, and by whom, and how   
it happened to be of an appropriate size. The Ranger, Navain, had said he was   
expected, had given him a room number without a second thought. A sudden chill   
raised goose bumps on his arms. He hurriedly folded the vest and thrust it back   
into the chest, returning to his unpacking. Settling the rest of his gear   
consumed only a few minutes; a few minutes more and his footsteps once again   
echoed in the little chamber.   
  
Garibaldi turned to the bookshelf. Minbari language. History of the Rangers.   
Culture and tradition, Minbari and Human. Philosophy. The story of Valen.   
This wasn't going to be easy, he thought, sighing.   
  
He didn't have to stay here. He could take a walk.  
  
Michael made his way out of the barracks, out to the compound, lengthening his   
strides and inhaling deeply of the night air. Maybe he could relax enough, tire   
himself out enough, to get some sleep.   
  
He tried to orient himself, to get his bearings within the facility. Much of   
the property was given over to training fields, open grounds and courses,   
separated one from the other and from the surrounding hillsides by fragile   
looking fences. He passed close by what looked like an obstacle course. This   
probably wouldn't be unlike his Earth Force training. He guessed there would be   
survival skills, and surveillance exercises as well.   
  
At the far end of the camp, the ships were moored, and two small buildings stood   
on what looked like robotic foundations. Those, he thought, smiling faintly at   
his memories, would be the simulators. Well, he had plenty of experience as a   
pilot. That shouldn't be a problem.   
  
He passed an enclosed area with ominous looking signs, all in Minbari. He   
couldn't read them, but he could guess this was the target range. What kind of   
weapons, he wondered? But it didn't matter. Time and practice. Given time and   
practice he could master any weapon.  
  
Now this might not be so easy, he thought as he discovered the martial arts   
center. The Minbari were renowned for their strength and their skill in those   
arts. They were not to be trifled with. And his forty-year-old body wasn't   
looking forward to taking all those falls.   
  
He stopped to look up at the classroom building in the center of the compound.   
He hadn't made a very good schoolboy all those years ago. How could he begin a   
whole new set of studies now?   
  
To his left the three temples stood, their surfaces luminous in the moon glow.   
Minbari religion gave him the creeps. He wasn't fond of any religion, wasn't   
too sure what he believed, but the Minbari and their endless rituals ... well,   
he'd try to respect it, but he sure wasn't going to delight in it.   
  
Delight, respect, compassion: the three qualities the Rangers were to embody.   
He had always believed respect had to be earned. As for delight, well, there   
hadn't been much of that lately. They had salvaged things. It hadn't turned   
out too badly. But delight? No, not for a while now. And compassion. Passion   
he understood. Compassion sounded ... well, something in his eye-for-an-eye   
code of justice just couldn't buy into it.   
  
What the hell was he doing here?  
  
He turned right, and saw, there ahead of him, a solitary building. Valen's   
home. The residence of the Entil'Zha. Jeff's house. He tried to picture   
Sinclair here, tried to imagine him in this setting. Would Jeff really welcome   
him here?   
  
The house was dark, as he knew it would be, as it should be. These quarters   
belonged to the Entil'Zha, that title belonged now to Delenn, and she was not   
here. He moved closer, drawn to the place, wanting, just for a moment, to be   
near it, to feel its ghosts. Timidly, he approached the entrance, his feelers   
out for anyone who might catch him sneaking around where he sensed he should not   
be.   
  
Gingerly, he laid the flat of his hand against the door and wondered how many   
times Jeff's hand had rested here. Tell me I'm doing the right thing. You knew   
I'd be here, eventually. You knew. Did you also know that I'd be scared   
shitless? It's your place, Jeff, your work. I'm not sure I can do this. I'm   
old, Jeff. I'm too damn old, and I'm so damn tired. Tired and scared. I'm   
scared I'll let you down, I'm scared I'll blow it. Why aren't you here? Why   
did you go, and not tell me how to do this before you left?  
  
Damn it! He couldn't cry on the Entil'Zha's doorstep. He let his head drop   
forward to rest on the door beside his hand, then jumped back as the door   
yielded under the pressure. He spun to see if he had been observed, but no, he   
was alone. He caught his breath, wiped his eyes, and coaxed the door closed.   
He should get some sleep.  
  
It occurred to him to wonder, as he approached the barracks, if there was a   
curfew, a time when the place was locked up. He'd make a wonderful impression   
if he got locked out of the barracks his first night here. His fears were   
calmed when the door he was headed for opened and a young Minbari exited,   
pausing to hold the door open for Michael.   
  
"Nice night for a walk," Garibaldi said with a nod that was greeting and thanks.   
The Minbari did not answer, but gave a slight bow, and walked on. Michael had   
no idea if the man spoke English, and less idea of how to greet him in Minbari.   
He looked after the silent figure, wondering if he would ever be able to   
communicate in even one of the dialects of Minbar. It was then he noticed the   
pack the Minbari carried. "Are you leaving?" he asked incredulously, releasing   
the door.   
  
The stranger stopped, started, stopped again. He looked back at Garibaldi and   
nodded. "Yes," he said softly, "it was a mistake to come." He hitched his pack   
back up on his shoulder and began to walk again.  
  
Michael's long strides caught him up to the young Minbari easily. "Isn't it   
kind of early to make that decision?"  
  
"No," his companion replied, neither looking up nor breaking stride.   
  
"You wanna explain that one?" Garibaldi asked, when it finally became clear   
that the other had finished, not just paused.  
  
"I am neither warrior nor scholar. I am not prepared for what is required   
here."  
  
"Someone must think you are, or you wouldn't have been accepted," Michael   
snapped back. The trainee made no reply. "You must think you are, or you   
wouldn't have asked."   
  
They stopped then and looked at each other. Michael thought they were a study   
in contrasts: Minbari and Human, short and tall, light and dark, young and ...   
well, they had very little in common, he thought. Except maybe their fear.   
"One circuit of the compound," Michael proposed, "then if you still want to   
leave I won't stop you."   
  
They fell into step together, introducing themselves, trading stories. The   
young worker-caste Minbari, whose name was Jhevnak, blazed to life as he talked   
about coming to Tuzanor to protect his people against those who would destroy   
them. Garibaldi had seen this fire before, working with so many Rangers, all of   
them so dedicated to the cause, to The One. He tried to explain how he had come   
to be here, but he did not hear the fire.   
  
They found themselves back at the door to the barracks and halted, remembering   
their bargain. "You should sleep, Michael," his companion admonished him. "I   
have heard that Humans find it difficult to adjust to our shorter day."  
  
It saddened Garibaldi to realize that this sounded like goodbye. This one might   
have the heart of a Ranger; Michael had hoped he would reconsider. But a   
promise is a promise. "Yeah, well, good night, then." He opened the door to   
the barracks. "And good luck to you."  
  
"To us both, in Valen's name," Jhevnak said as he followed Garibaldi inside.  
  
= = =  
  
Jhevnak had been right about the shorter day. Garibaldi thought he had scarcely   
settled down to sleep when the wake-up call came. He showered quickly and   
turned to the first hurdle of the day: dressing.   
  
His EarthForce uniform had felt strange at first, he told himself, and the Army   
of Light uniform was a gift from Delenn, yes, but itchy! He thought of Zack, and   
smiled. Perhaps he could get used to this too, but the cowl neck shirt felt odd   
after years of high-collared uniforms. He pulled on the trousers. Fasten then   
zip. Are you smiling, Jeff? Forcing his feet into the boots, one by one, he   
tried to decide why the right one reminded him of Londo, and the left of G'kar.   
Finally he drew on the waistcoat and secured its belt, his thoughts flying again   
to Marcus, his heart heavy in remembrance.   
  
Like so many Rangers, Marcus died too soon, and that enraged him. Somewhere   
within him there was a ferocious defense of life, all life, and to see a   
courageous and honorable life cut short made his whole body clench in anger.   
But Marcus -- there was more to that. He had not died fighting the Shadows, or   
the PsiCorps, or Clark's evil. He had not died in battle. Was it noble   
sacrifice or suicidal arrogance that claimed him? Michael still wasn't sure.   
But right now he felt like his head had been transplanted onto Marcus' body, or   
a middle-aged version of Marcus' body, and he could only hope it came with some   
of the Ranger's courage.  
  
Their day began in the classroom. Minbari language first, Adronato, the dialect   
of the Religious caste. Garibaldi was pleased to find his memory sharp;   
vocabulary would come rapidly. He was enough of a mimic to manage   
pronunciation, and he smiled as he recognized phrases he had heard Delenn and   
Lennier exchange. When phrases began to combine into sentences, his self-  
satisfaction evaporated. Every grammatical rule of Adronato was exquisitely   
logical, clear as the crystal from which the temples were carved. But every   
sentence he tried to form could be governed by any one of a half dozen or more   
different rules, chosen according to the situation. It was, Michael thought   
with frustration, a language for diplomats. Perhaps it was that diplomacy that   
kept his classmates from laughing aloud, but each time he spoke he sensed he   
embarrassed himself again.   
  
It felt better to move out to the obstacle course. While age could seem a   
handicap, Michael knew he had kept in shape, and he had the advantage of   
experience. He watched several other candidates take their turns on the course   
before pushing himself full out through his own run. He was pleased with it, he   
thought a bit breathlessly, when he was done. He spotted one of the trainers   
near the finish line.   
  
"What's my time?" he called out, trying not to pant. He scanned the group of   
candidates on the field, trying to guess at the strongest competitors.   
  
"Time?" the trainer inquired expressionlessly.  
  
"Yeah. My time. How long did it take me to run the course?"  
  
"It took ...as long as it took," he replied, regarding Garibaldi as though this   
were the oddest question he had ever heard. And then he turned back to watching   
the candidate on the course, and Michael knew the conversation was over.  
  
  
Pilot training began in the simulators, White Star simulators. That was one   
hell of a ship, and with all that had gone on back at the station, he hadn't   
gotten to log any time in one, so this was a treat. If this simulation was true   
to the reality, this ship would practically fly itself. All he needed to do was   
learn the controls. He wondered when they'd get to the real thing.   
  
It was hard to leave the comfortable familiarity of the pilot's seat, especially   
when he contemplated the next class. He wasn't even quite sure how to name it.   
Philosophy, maybe? But no.   
  
Delight. Respect. Compassion. He had heard this speech before. But a class?   
They were going to have a class in Delight? Michael's irreverent wit sprang to   
life, and he blushed involuntarily as he wondered how the others might react to   
such thoughts. He remembered teaching Delenn that limerick. And he laughed.   
  
It was the wrong moment. Obviously, the instructor had just said something   
profound, something he had not heard, and now all eyes were on him. He tried   
desperately to remember enough of this morning's Adronato lesson to apologize to   
the Minbari trainer.   
  
"That is very kind of you, Michael," Sech Navain responded with a small bow,   
"but apology is not necessary. We are here to learn delight and it is obvious   
you have found that treasure. Will you share it with us?"  
  
Garibaldi was deeply relieved that the response had come in English, because   
there was no way he was going to talk himself out of this one in Minbari.   
Navain didn't let him off the hook easily, even in English, but eventually, he   
moved on.   
  
The class moved as well, out of the classroom, out of the building, into the   
hills around the camp. Navain led, at a brisk pace Michael noted, and   
encouraged them to find delight in the sensory experience of this place. After   
his earlier screw up, Michael wanted to behave himself. He tried to focus on   
what Sech Navain was saying. He looked, really looked, at the blazing orange of   
the tiny flowers curling in and around the crystalline rocks, but his brain   
would only embrace one image: Ferdinand the Bull. And he felt quite bullish   
himself.   
  
= = =  
  
They returned to the compound for the midday meal. Breakfast had been a quiet   
affair, with both Minbari and human food available, and real coffee, which   
Michael had found an pleasant surprise. He worried that this meal might be one   
of those endless Minbari rituals and he was already feeling very much out of   
place. Mercifully, there was no ceremony, just a simple meal: edible, honest   
food and cool, refreshing drink. Tray in hand, Michael scanned the dining hall.   
There were plenty of empty seats, but as his eyes searched even beyond them, he   
realized he was looking for a place to hide.   
  
"Michael?" It was Jhevnak. "Will you join us?" he asked, gesturing toward a   
table around which a group of young people, Human and Minbari, male and female,   
were settling down to their meal.   
  
"Looks like you're already pretty well full there," Michael answered, hoping his   
panic was not plain in his voice.   
  
"Not at all," came the reply. "Please, we would be honored."  
  
Awkwardly, reluctantly, Michael agreed. Following Jhevnak to the table, he   
prayed his discomfort had not offended the young Minbari. The group arranged   
themselves to make space for Garibaldi and Jhevnak, and the Minbari introduced   
Michael to each of the trainees around the table. "Adronato is not the native   
language for any of us, Michael," Jhevnak went on to explain, "and we thought   
that if we took our meals together, it would provide us an opportunity to   
practice."   
  
"Yeah," chuckled the young man beside Garibaldi, as he raked back a shock of   
straw colored hair, "at least this way we'll all make the same mistakes." There   
was laughter around the table, punctuated by calls of "In Adronato, please," an   
admonition that would be repeated throughout their lunch, as they struggled to   
converse within the strictures of their brief exposure to the language. They   
laughed a lot during that meal, Michael realized, as the group began to   
disperse.   
  
After a time Jhevnak excused himself, leaving the young man with the straw   
colored hair , Michael, and a Minbari woman to finish sipping their tea. "Is it   
true, Michael," she asked in softly accented English, "that you knew Entil'Zha?"  
  
Michael wondered if it was just her unfamiliarity with English that made her   
choose past tense. Edgy at the thought that someone was sharing information   
about him, he tried to sound casual, but not too casual. "Delenn? Yes, ..."  
  
"Satai Delenn as well?" she interrupted. Garibaldi stopped, startled.   
  
The young man at his elbow leaned closer. "We wondered if you knew Ambassador   
Sinclair."   
  
Now Garibaldi was decidedly uncomfortable. "Yes." There was a familiarity   
about the paranoia he was feeling now, a bitter recognition of an old ghost. "I   
worked for Sinclair." He didn't want to be rude, but it took all his control to   
make that minimal response and keep his voice low and even. "Where did you hear   
that?"   
  
"Jhevnak told us you came from Babylon 5," the woman said with some   
embarrassment. "Is that where you met Satai Delenn as well?"   
  
Michael nodded and tried to swallow down the lump of tension in his throat.   
"You said 'Entil'Zha.' Delenn is the Entil'Zha." Michael looked from one to the   
other. "Isn't she?"  
  
"Of course." The golden hair sagged down over his eyes as the young man's head   
bobbed in response. "It's just ...well, there was Valen, and then for a   
thousand years, there was no Entil'Zha, and then Sinclair ..." He trailed off   
as though unable to find the words to finish the thought.  
  
"No Entil'Zha for a thousand years?" Garibaldi stared in disbelief. "Who   
commanded the Rangers?"  
  
"Anla'shok Na," came the response from across the table. "Ranger One. The   
position of Ranger One passed down, but no one bore the title of Entil'Zha until   
..."   
  
Until Jeff, thought Garibaldi. Valen. And Jeff Sinclair. "I guess I need to   
learn a bit more about the history of the Rangers, " Michael offered, tipping   
his head to one side and arching an eyebrow at his companions.  
  
"It's our next class," the blond laughed.  
  
  
That classroom session was not too bad, Garibaldi thought --as classes go -- but   
weapons training was a more familiar, more comfortable experience. He examined   
this sidearm carefully, disassembling and reassembling it with the habitual ease   
of years of training. Over his years in EarthForce and in security work,   
Michael had checked out on a variety of weapons. There were some differences   
here, he thought, testing the heft of the weapon in his left hand, but nothing   
he couldn't handle. He was a good shot, better than many, but never fancied   
himself a marksman. It would feel good to have the time to sharpen his skill.   
  
There was a certain irony, Garibaldi thought, in the fact that they went from   
weapons training to meditation. Why, he wondered as he tried to fold himself   
into a cross-legged posture on the floor, didn't anyone meditate in a chair? Or   
stretched out on the couch? Why not standing over the stove, stirring a nice   
pot of marinara? No, stop. Too soon to think about dinner. Why did it always   
have to be on the floor? As if reading his thoughts, the master began to speak   
about being rooted, grounded. Great, now the master was in his head, and it was   
already too damn crowded in here.   
  
He was being asked to focus on his breathing, to be conscious of each inhalation   
and each exhalation. As long as they keep coming in pairs, Michael thought.   
His own voice inside his head chastised him; something well buried recognized   
the need in him. Michael Garibaldi had always been a man of action, had prided   
himself on that. Now his own soul was telling him he needed this stillness. He   
closed his eyes and slowly filled his lungs.   
  
Quieting the mind, concentrating only on the breath ...   
Was his mind quiet, Michael wondered?   
There were so many voices fighting for his attention ...   
Only on the breath ...   
Inhale ...   
Exhale ...   
Inhale ...   
Should he hold the breath longer?  
Exhale ...   
Inhale ...   
Exhale ...   
Was he doing this right?  
Quieting the mind ...   
Just relax ...   
Inhale ...   
Oh hell! Was he supposed to be in sync with the others?  
Just relax ...   
How can I relax when I feel so freaking out of place?  
  
He heard the trainer's voice again, a distant drone.   
"Some find that counting helps them to focus."  
OK ...   
Inhale, one, exhale ...   
Inhale, two, exhale ...   
Inhale, three, exhale ...   
Should the count be after the exhale?   
Damn it!  
... four, exhale ...   
Cursing in mediation class -- good work, Michael ...   
What was he up to?  
Damn ...   
Inhale, one, maybe he should just count.   
Two ...   
Three ...   
Four ...   
Wonder what number the others are up to?   
  
His frustration broke loose and he shook himself in exasperation. A gentle hand   
settled on each of his shoulders, and he froze. Nailed.   
  
"Begin again." A soft voice from behind him, a voice clearly not meant to reach   
the whole group, a voice he thought he knew, instructed him. "Be aware first of   
your body." He tried to rearrange himself but everything seemed to hurt.   
"Focus on the discomfort, each area, one by one. Acknowledge it and release   
it." Slowly, soothingly, the voice guided him back down into a state of   
relaxation, drew his attention back to his breathing. The soft, familiar voice   
kept the other voices at bay until, slowly drawing down another long breath,   
Garibaldi realized what it meant to find his center. As each breath cleansed   
him, calmed him, soothed him, he felt it, felt the energy coalescing there in   
the core of his being. And he realized that the voice had stopped, the gentle   
hands no longer rested on his shoulders. He did not need them now, he knew, but   
he wished he could speak his thanks. And he knew who owned that voice.   
  
  
It struck him as no accident that martial arts training followed meditation.   
Flowing from the focused energy, faced with a quiet spirit, the moves came   
easily, felt natural, accomplished their task. This was not entirely new for   
him, of course; his EarthForce training had included several forMs. Anticipation   
had proved accurate in one respect: he knew already that he would ache tonight.   
There was a pleasure in the process, however, that he did not remember in his   
earlier training. Delight, he thought wryly -- they're getting to you, Michael.   
  
  
Allowed just a bit of time to clean up before dinner, Michael tried to assess   
the day. He scrubbed his hands with a mindfulness of the afternoon's work,   
washing away the traces of honest labor. There had been no insurmountable   
obstacles, and even some satisfaction, yet he doubted this would be typical.   
His stomach gave a rumble as he dried himself with the small white towel, and a   
smile came to him at the thought of how good it would be to have some ossobuco   
right now, the way he had made it the last time Stephen came to dinner. But he   
wasn't on kitchen duty; he had other concerns. And evaluating his prospects   
here, he found it difficult to shake off a sense of foreboding, but perhaps it   
was just that he sensed what dinner would be like.  
  
It was the meal he had dreaded. From the time they entered the dining hall,   
until finally they dispersed, every moment, every movement, every mouthful   
seemed governed by Minbari ritual. He found himself seated amongst unfamiliar   
faces, nameless strangers, but there was little time to get acquainted as he   
policed his actions, struggling to observe what felt to him stilted traditions,   
for fear of offending. But offending whom, he wondered? More than half of his   
table mates were Humans, as awkward as he about these rubrics. What if they   
just stopped all this, shared a meal, and got to know each other? What would   
happen if he cracked a joke, or skipped a step, or mangled a phrase? What could   
they do to him?   
  
Garibaldi's eyes wandered about the room as he realized that he felt trapped,   
bound by rite, caged by ceremony. He was searching, he knew, not only with his   
eyes but with his heart, with the breath that seemed stuck half in and half out   
of his lungs, searching for a way out, for an escape. Been running all your   
life, Michael. Why stop now? His eyes found Jhevnak, who returned his glance,   
just for a moment, with a smile and a tiny nod. Garibaldi returned to the   
ritual, feeling just a little ashamed.  
  
= = =  
  
He bolted from the dining hall when finally the ceremonies ended, grateful for   
the cool night air and the open space of the compound. Once around the compound   
before I hit the books, he thought, groaning inwardly at the thought of   
wrestling with Adronato grammar. Once around. And then if you want to leave I   
won't stop you.   
  
As he stretched his legs into longer and longer strides, Garibaldi swung his   
arms first pendulum-style then in big lazy circles, working out the tensions of   
the day, feeling for the muscles that would complain. He fell into a brisk walk   
and noticed the change in the rhythm of his breath. It felt good to move, free   
of structures and confinement. His pace quickened, and quickened again to an   
easy jog. As his arms began to pump he wondered if such behavior would be   
frowned on by the Minbari, but as he became aware of someone approaching him, he   
realized he didn't care.   
  
A glance over his left shoulder showed him the young man from the lunch table --   
Andrew? The blond pushed to catch up to Garibaldi. "Mind some company?" he   
asked.  
  
"Not at all. Drew, right?" Michael watched the young man nod and fall into   
step beside him. "But I should warn you, I don't know that we won't get in   
trouble for this."   
  
Drew laughed. "Wouldn't be the first time. So what do you think?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
"The first day. The whole thing. Is it what you expected?"  
  
Michael pondered the question. What had he expected? "I don't know ..." There   
was more to the answer but he couldn't find it yet. "You?"  
  
"To tell you the truth, it scared the hell out of me." Garibaldi threw him a   
questioning look. "It's the military stuff I guess, "he explained. "I was   
never in EarthForce. I can handle the classroom stuff, the meditation, but the   
weapons and the pilot training ... I think I may be in way over my head."  
  
For the first time, Michael saw how very young his companion looked. Was he   
even old enough for EarthForce? Did he understand what he was committing   
himself to here?   
  
"Drew, if you don't mind my asking ..." Michael began.   
  
"Twenty seven," he interjected. "And yes, I know I don't look it." He laughed   
when Michael looked over.   
  
"Sorry," Michael offered sheepishly.   
  
"It's all right. I'm used to it, " Drew answered. "All this is old hat for you   
I suppose?"  
  
"Uh, no, " laughed Garibaldi, shaking his head ruefully. "And could we stay   
away from the word 'old'?" They laughed together, though Drew blushed a bit,   
and then Michael continued. "What is it that frightens you?"  
  
For a moment or two the only sound was their rhythmic breathing. "I guess, "   
the younger man spoke at last, "it's the feeling that I'm playing catch-up, that   
everyone else knows all this already, and that no matter how hard I work, I'll   
never be as good."  
  
"As good as what?"  
  
"As good as everyone else, as good as I'm supposed to be."  
  
"How good are you supposed to be?" He smiled as he prodded his young companion,   
but when the young man's eyes met his, his demeanor changed. "Is that what it's   
about? Being as good as someone else? Or being better than everyone else? Is   
this some sort of contest?"  
  
The young man never looked away. Michael stopped, as did Drew beside him, both   
of them bent over, gulping air. "There's nothing here you can't learn, but it   
can't be about competition. Excellence, yes. Personal best, sure. Full out,   
all the time, absolutely. But not to measure ourselves against one another. We   
need each other, need to know we can rely on one another, trust one another.   
You can't do it alone out there. It doesn't matter who was the best, if you're   
dead."   
  
The young man looked chastened. "I guess I'm used to competition." An   
embarrassed smile spread over his face. "I'm good at it."  
  
Garibaldi picked up the grin. "Well if it's competition you want, see if you   
can beat the old man back to the barracks," he challenged.   
  
"Not even open to question," taunted the younger man, and they both sprinted for   
the door. Drew would win this one, but that was all right. Michael's mind   
wandered back to the obstacle course.   
  
= = =  
  
The days fell into a rhythm, a pattern of expectation that carried him along in   
the comfort of familiarity, though the material grew more difficult, the   
challenges bolder, the standards higher. The classroom studies -- in history,   
philosophy, culture -- were going better than he had expected. He was more   
focused, better able to concentrate than he had anticipated. Only the Adronato   
continued to be a problem.   
  
He could see his progress on the target range and in martial arts as well. It   
showed in his body: he was leaner, stronger. Whether because he was taking   
fewer falls or because his body was more resilient, he no longer had to spend   
his evenings working out the pain in his muscles and joints. They would begin   
soon to work with the pike -- denn'bok, he corrected himself.   
  
But for now there was meditation. This one he would have written off most   
easily before he began his training, but surprisingly he found himself looking   
forward to this island of stillness in each day's river of activity, a chance to   
breathe, literally and figuratively. Still, he thought, as the trainees   
assembled for the session, somehow he had expected more -- more what, he didn't   
know -- but more.   
  
That vague dissatisfaction was pushed aside as Sech Ardret, the master who   
supervised the meditation class, motioned for them to remain standing. Pitched   
to no one in particular, Ardret's voice wandered through the group. Michael   
sometimes thought Sech Ardret realized only as an afterthought that they were   
listening to him, but nonetheless he strained to hear. The master spoke of   
every situation being sacred, every action a meditation. Gradually Garibaldi   
understood what was being asked of them. Ardret led them out, across the   
compound and into the hills. They were to make the walk a meditation, focusing   
on each step, on the ground beneath their feet, the beauty around them, the   
breath moving in and out of their bodies.   
  
Michael felt an irritation rising in him, a resentment pushing its way to the   
surface. He remembered the first day with Sech Navain, wandering around these   
hills, feeling awkward and out of place. He tried to focus on his breathing, to   
put the rest out of his mind. He closed his eyes, and immediately tripped over   
a stone in the path. Righted and wide-eyed, he was surprised to realize that he   
felt cheated, robbed of something he felt he needed, and deserved. He wanted   
time to meditate, to reconstruct himself in middle of the day. He wanted, he   
realized, to be primed and ready for the denn'bok. This was a waste of his   
time.  
  
With a sigh he searched for his patience. He quieted his breathing again but   
kept his eyes open, cast down, locked on the path a pace or two ahead of his   
feet. He tried not to see it, to escape all of this, to flee to the quiet place   
inside, but again and again the resentment intruded. By the time they returned   
to the camp he was restive and jittery.  
  
  
He shook his head to clear all that away as he moved to his place for the   
martial arts class. One by one the trainees were presented with the denn'bok,   
the traditional fighting pike, and for once, the ritual seemed fitting to   
Michael. When they had each received a weapon, Sech Durhan silently   
demonstrated the opening of the pike, a motion which each of them instinctively   
copied. The air crackled with the sound of three dozen metal staves snapping to   
their full length and the energy of three dozen barely suppressed giggles.   
Navain should be here to see delight, Michael thought.  
  
The mood quickly became serious. Two teachers, Durhan's assistants,   
demonstrated a few basic offensive and defensive moves as the master explained.   
Quickly they partnered off and Garibaldi found himself facing the young Minbari   
woman who had first asked him about the Entil'Zha. Michael grasped the pike   
firmly, arms at shoulder width, and signaled for her to take the offensive.  
  
She thrust forward with her right hand, threatening to bring the pike down   
toward Michael's left shoulder. He raised his weapon to parry, turning his body   
slightly to left as he did. A blinding pain rocketed from his rib cage to his   
brain as the other end of her pike slammed into his right side. Before he could   
again find air for his lungs, she had angled it downward, rapping him sharply   
behind the knees and dropping him full on his back.   
  
When his eyes focused again he rose, pretended to believe he was not hurt, and   
signaled his readiness to begin again. They exchanged a few light strikes and   
Michael was grateful for the sense that she was allowing him to catch his   
breath. Suddenly she thrust one end of the pike in a stabbing motion, sending   
Michael backwards off balance. He tried to block with an upward thrust, but her   
weapon slid over his and into his gut. She drew back as he doubled over in   
pain, and dropped him with a strike across his back.   
  
He rose again, more slowly this time, but it made little difference. One of   
Sech Durhan's assistants coached him, and the master himself observed, though he   
said nothing, but still Michael became far too well acquainted with the floor.   
He pushed himself back into the drill after each fall, reminding himself that it   
was a learning process, focusing on his form. He vowed he would not let his ego   
get in his way but fall after fall after fall without any successful reply began   
to sting him. Someone had said this was not a competition, he remembered,   
fighting down a blush.  
  
By the time they were dismissed to prepare for dinner, there was not a spot in   
Garibaldi's body that did not ache. He was bruised, with several welts already   
bright purple, and bloodied, where a blow had opened his eyebrow. If he carried   
himself slow and straight this evening, it was less out of respect for the   
ritual than because he could scarcely move at all.   
  
It was tempting then to beg off when, after dinner, Drew sought him out for the   
jog which had become a nightly routine for them. He had battled his vanity that   
afternoon; he opted now to indulge it just this once. They set off on their   
usual circuit with Garibaldi determined not to let the younger man see how badly   
he was hurting. He failed.   
  
"Rough day?" Drew asked without making eye contact. Michael seemed to be   
limping, and his breathing was ragged.  
  
"Parts of it." The blond slowed the pace a bit, and Garibaldi was embarrassed   
but appreciative. "Thanks." He wanted to shift the attention away from   
himself. "You?"  
  
Drew shrugged. "Not bad. Excited about the denn'bok."   
  
Just thrilled myself, Michael thought. They ran for a while in silence. "Want   
to talk about what happened?" the younger man asked at last, and Garibaldi   
couldn't help but laugh.  
  
"Not really, no." Drew didn't press him but the question stayed with Michael.   
What did happen? Why had he failed so miserably today? "I don't know what   
happened, " he said aloud after a long silence. He had always been able to hold   
his own in a fight, any fight. "I felt like I was stuck in slow motion. I   
could see the attack coming. I knew what I should do. I knew how to do it.   
But before the message could get from my brain to body, I was down again." He   
shook his head to clear away the memory and the disgust.   
  
"You talk to the trainers?" his companion asked, and Michael nodded. "What did   
they say?"  
  
"Move faster," Michael answered wryly, and they both winced.   
  
"You have the technique, the form?"  
  
Garibaldi shook his head. "In theory, yeah. I have trouble staying vertical   
long enough to put it into practice." It hurt when he laughed.  
  
"Do you want to have another go at it?" Drew asked, glancing over at his   
running partner cautiously. With a smile he added, "I'll go easy on you."  
  
They were coming to the end of their circuit. Grateful for small mercies,   
Michael stopped to catch his breath. "You'll understand, I hope, if I say not   
tonight?" That made them both laugh. "But thanks, " Michael said more   
seriously, "I appreciate the offer."  
  
"Any time. Heading in?"  
  
Garibaldi straightened and shook his head. "Nah. I think I'll take another   
lap. Slowly. I've gotta work some of this out before I stiffen up. You go   
ahead."  
  
They said good night, and Michael began to walk, gently stretching out arms and   
legs, neck and back. What had happened today? The rest of the day had been   
ordinary enough, except for the meditation session. Could that have made so   
much of a difference? He was startled to realize how much he had come to look   
forward to that daily time of meditation, and how cheated he felt by the loss of   
it today.   
  
Night's triumph over day turned the walls of the temples to mirrors, the rising   
moons reflecting in the shimmering crystal panels. Garibaldi stopped and   
studied the sight: four moons on Minbar tonight. Substance and image, reality   
and illusion. Sometimes it was hard to know which was which.   
  
Uncomfortable as he was with Minbari religion, he had avoided the temples, but   
just now they looked somehow inviting. He wanted a quiet space, a place away,   
to think, and yes, to meditate. He approached the smallest of the three   
temples, hoping he was not violating some sacred rule by entering.   
  
The temple was a simple space, lit now only by moonlight. Garibaldi took only a   
few paces toward the center of the soaring structure before easing himself onto   
a bench. He felt a little like an interloper and wished he could disappear into   
the shadows, but there was a peace here, a stillness that he needed. He closed   
his eyes, and turned his focus to his breathing.   
  
He was not sure how long he sat there like that, quietly inhaling the moonlight,   
thinking -- just for a little while -- not at all. When at last he opened his   
eyes, he thought the sight another trick of reflection. There before him across   
the room sat another figure in meditation. As his eyes adjusted to the light he   
began to recognize Sech Navain.   
  
A flush of embarrassment went through him as he quickly looked around for   
others, but there were none, only himself and Navain. He was certain the master   
had not been there when he arrived, nor had Michael heard him enter. Could he   
slip away as quietly and not disturb Navain's meditation?   
  
Silently he rose from the bench. "I am sorry if I have interrupted your   
meditation, Michael," the older man said, his eyes still closed. He spoke in   
Adronato, and Michael prayed he would not mangle the reply.  
  
"And I, if I have disturbed you, Sech Navain." Garibaldi bowed slightly even   
though the teacher could not see him.   
  
"Your Adronato is improving," Navain added, looking at him finally.   
  
Michael bowed again. "It is kind of you to say so, master." Had he put that   
together right?  
  
Navain chuckled. "A little," he said in English, and Garibaldi blushed in the   
darkness. He sensed it would be rude of him to leave, or even to ask to be   
dismissed, but he desperately wanted to flee this place now. Besides, he   
rationalized, it was late, and there was study still ahead of him.  
  
"How is your training progressing, Michael?" Navain spoke now in English,   
neither rising from his seat nor inviting Garibaldi to resume his.   
  
"Well, sir, thank you."  
  
"You are happy here?" Michael's breath froze. How was he supposed to answer   
that? The silence served as answer enough. "Yet you remain," Navain said at   
last. The barest "yes" fought its way out of Michael's throat, though he was   
not sure it had been a question. "Perhaps," the teacher said as he rose, "you   
need to ask yourself why." And with that, he was gone.   
  
= = =  
  
Michael Garibaldi returned to the barracks and the work that awaited him there,   
trying to focus on the calm self-control the meditation had given him. The   
studies of that night and of the days and nights that followed were often   
interrupted by the memory of that exchange with Navain. It irritated Michael to   
realize that Navain had been able, with a few words, to undo what he had   
accomplished in his meditation. Yet you remain. Did he only imagine the sneer   
in those words? The Minbari underestimated Garibaldi's determination, his   
stubbornness, his plain meanness, if he thought that would get rid of Michael.   
  
Each of Navain's classes became a trial. The whole notion was impossible for   
Garibaldi to take seriously. Artificial exercises and hokey stories were not   
going to teach him, or anyone else, about delight, respect, or compassion. That   
wasn't the stuff of classroom study; that came from life experience. You live   
with people, work with them, and you see the integrity, the courage, the talent,   
the competence. That's where respect comes from. And you see the pain and the   
suffering and you learn compassion. What about delight? He didn't really "get"   
that one: why does a Ranger need to be concerned about delight?   
  
Out of courtesy, if not true respect, Michael tried not to show his distaste for   
Navain's classes. He went through the motions of participation, said as little   
as he could manage, attempted to look attentive even though his mind was often   
far away. Navain did not attack him openly, and for that he was grateful. He   
had feared the showdown of the first class might be precursor to other battles,   
but it had not happened. He could survive this, although he could not shake the   
feeling that Navain wanted to drive him out.   
  
  
There were temporary escapes, however, and pilot training was one he had come to   
cherish. Sessions in the White Star simulators were a fascination for him.   
They rotated through the various stations, learning each system and set of   
controls in turn, and Michael grew increasingly competent and increasingly awed   
by the exquisite design of the machine. Simulations were interspersed by air   
time in small single pilot fighters. It was good to be strapped into that seat   
again, free in space, partnered with a reliable and responsive ship. Garibaldi   
felt at home here, more himself than in any other part of the training.   
  
He was startled to realize how much time had passed since his arrival. Six   
weeks -- no, more, even after adjusting the Minbari-Earth time differences --   
had slipped by, leaving him more than halfway through the training. It was hard   
to mark the passing days: ritual and routine and the simple busyness of the life   
here tended to blur it all together. There were few special events to set apart   
one day from another, but there, Michael thought as he crossed the compound   
toward the simulators, was one.  
  
On the path from the Entil'Zha's residence to the administration building,   
bracketed between Sech Durhan and Sech Ardret, walked Delenn. What brought her   
to Tuzanor, Michael wondered? She was Ranger One, of course. Perhaps this was   
a routine inspection. But the looks on the faces of the teachers as they   
whispered to her suggested otherwise.   
  
Another trainee, also seeing the petite Entil'Zha, motioned to her colleagues   
and whispered "Satai Delenn!" It struck Michael that he wasn't sure how he   
should address Delenn now. It had always been "Ambassador" or simply "Delenn."   
Should it now be "Ranger One?" Or "Entil'Zha?" Or was it "Mrs. Sheridan?"   
With a smile, Michael entered the simulator.  
  
A check of the rotation schedule left Michael startled. He was in the center   
chair. Although he knew they each took a turn in command, he'd been too   
preoccupied learning the engineering and operating systems of the White Star to   
think about that role. He approached the big chair, amazed by the almost giddy   
nervousness he felt. Orders for the simulated mission had been left on the   
command chair. Picking them up, he slowly sat down.   
  
The mission seemed straightforward enough: reports of attacks on a small colony   
by what may be Shadow ships. Investigate, lend aid as appropriate. Michael   
assumed there would be some surprise, some test of their reactions. Expecting   
unpleasantness was part of his nature. He pushed himself back into the chair   
and called for status.   
  
His crew reported in, each station in turn indicating nominal functioning.   
Garibaldi ordered launch, directing navigation to set course for the coordinates   
of their simulated destination. He shifted his weight uncomfortably in the   
command chair, and caught himself glancing over his shoulder. Realizing that he   
had half expected to find a frowning Sheridan there, he chuckled, but squirmed   
again, still ill at ease.   
  
Navigation announced that they were approaching their target, ready to jump out   
of hyperspace. Garibaldi gave the confirmation, and called for a view of the   
target. He leaned forward to study the image forming before him.   
  
Only a sudden grab to the arms of the chair kept him from hitting the floor.   
The blast shook the ship violently, and all hands scrambled to stay on station.   
Garibaldi called for evasive maneuvers, then a damage report. The ships on his   
viewer were definitely Shadow ships and there were three of them. He had walked   
into it. Now what?  
  
Tactical announced that one of the larger ships had locked weapons on them. He   
tried to evade. Another ship picked up a lock. He ordered weapons targeted,   
but he knew he was outgunned. He wasn't going to win a shooting battle.  
  
"What's the status of the colony?" Scans reported minimal damage planetside,   
none of it recent. Maybe they placed some value on not destroying this place.   
Garibaldi decided to see if he could turn that to his advantage.  
  
"Take us down, into the atmosphere. Over fly the colony." Maybe the Shadows   
would hold fire to avoid damage to the surface. But then what?  
  
They dove down toward the planet with one of the Shadow ships in pursuit. The   
other two kept station, and Michael tried to calculate whether he could turn and   
fire fast enough to take one of them out. He needed to try to even the odds a   
little.   
  
The call from tactical was nearly drowned out by the blast from one of the ships   
at station. They managed some evasion, but damage reports were up, and he had   
wounded. He ordered repairs, then cursed as the call of planet side damage came   
back. Maybe he should just try to run, but he couldn't open a jump point in the   
atmosphere. He ordered a hard come-about, an acrobatic maneuver more suited to   
a Starfury than to the White Star, but she held together for him.  
  
His throat raw with fear, his heart pounding, Garibaldi directed his crew to   
take the White Star right at the two Shadow ships above them. The third was   
still in pursuit. If they fired on him again, perhaps he could get them to do   
one another some damage.  
  
Another blast hit them. More casualties, and reports of serious damages, some   
which they would not repair. Systems were beginning to fail.   
  
"Can we jump?" he called. The response did not please him. He still had jump   
capability, but in their weakened condition, it was not advisable. It would not   
be the first ill-advised move he had made. Hopefully it would not be the last   
either.   
  
As they approached the pair of Shadows, they were forced to dodge an increasing   
rain of fire, and they were ever less able to do so. Casualties mounted; damage   
reports were dire. Just a little closer.   
  
"Initiate jump on my mark." The warning of the danger to themselves was   
repeated, but Michael saw a jump as his only hope now. And if he could get   
close enough, maybe the energy of the jump point opening would do the Shadows   
some damage. "MARK!"  
  
There was a roar as the jump engines kicked in, and the White Star lurched   
forward beneath them. Garibaldi was slammed back into the command chair, and   
held there as the ship began to shudder violently. With flaring sparks and   
acrid smoke, instruments shorted out, as system failures cascaded through the   
ship. Helm fought for control but with minimal response. The energy of the   
jump point wrenched the hull, and Michael could feel the craft beginning to   
shear.  
  
In a moment the simulator went dark. The remainder of the session was spent on   
the analysis, though Michael thought autopsy might be more apt. The ship was   
destroyed, all crew members dead, minimal damage to the Shadow vessels, but   
significant new damage to the colony planetside.   
  
Michael heard little of the analysis. His mind entertained only one thought:   
another Garibaldi screw up. And this time, no survivors. No rescue, no   
forgiveness. They were all dead. And next time, if there was a next time, it   
might not be a simulation. Real people. Real ships. Real dead.   
  
To have to spend the next hour listening to Navain prattle on about delight was   
an absurdity that left Michael enraged. He battled his fury through the rest of   
the morning, sitting silently through lunch, his jaw clenched so tightly he gave   
up trying to eat. Later on the weapons range he realized his hands were   
trembling from the pent-up anger. He tried to get some control in the   
meditation session, but every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the   
simulator. And then there was martial arts.   
  
They began with basic throws, taking turns throwing and being thrown, while   
Michael struggled not to hurt his partner with the force of his rage. After a   
time, they moved to the denn'bok training. There had been for Garibaldi no   
improvement over that first embarrassing day. Intellectually, he understood   
what was needed; practically, every drill was a humiliation for him. Today was   
no different. Repeatedly, his opponent, a young woman from Proxima 3, dropped   
him with just a few blows, blows he saw coming but could not block. And he   
couldn't touch her, couldn't touch any of them. Despite all the openings he   
could spot, he couldn't strike, not fast enough or sharp enough to go any good.   
  
And this little one, Michael thought, was deceptively strong for her size. He'd   
have some brilliant souvenirs of this drill, he thought just before everything   
went dark. When Garibaldi revived, it was, mercifully, time to stop for the   
day. 


	3. In Valen's Name 3/7

In Valen's Name  
Part 3  
  
  
  
= = =  
  
He was tending the bruises when the summons came. The Minbari Ranger who   
appeared at his door shared no information save that he was wanted in the   
Entil'Zha's office, then led him briskly through the corridors, and with a bow,   
left him outside the door. Garibaldi signaled, and as the door opened, stepped   
inside to find Delenn in conversation with Ardret, Durhan, and Navain.   
  
Michael realized at once why he had been called. So, it was over. And they   
would leave it to Delenn to tell him. He placed his hand on his chest and   
bowed. "Respects, Entil'Zha." The three looked uncomfortable and quickly took   
their leave. No greeting passed between Michael and the teachers, save his   
small, grudging bow.  
  
"Good evening, Michael. Thank you for coming." Delenn was smiling at him, the   
smile of an old friend, but was he seeing his friend or his Entil'Zha?   
  
He thought hard about his reply, his eyes cast down at the floor. In Adronato   
he said "Entil'Zha honors me by the summons."  
  
Delenn moved toward him, and taking his right hand from where it still rested   
above his heart, she cradled it in her hands. The tiny Minbari looked up into   
his eyes. "How are you, Michael?" she asked, in English.   
  
Did she really want him to answer that, at this, of all moments? In English he   
responded, "I am well, Entil'Zha."  
  
"Have a few months at Tuzanor made you forget your old friends?" she asked,   
still holding his hand.   
  
"No, Delenn," he said softly. Anything but, he thought.  
  
She released his hand and stepped away. "I am told the training has been   
difficult for you." A slight shift in inflection raised it into a question.   
  
Gee, I wonder where she heard that? "At times." Like now.   
  
"You are coming to the end of the period of training. Are you prepared to take   
the Ranger oath?"  
  
Garibaldi's stomach and jaw clenched. Was this how they wanted it? Was he   
supposed to take himself out, to save them from the dirty work? No deal.   
"Would it matter whether I thought I was or I wasn't?" His anger slung the   
blade of challenge.  
  
Delenn studied his eyes for a long time. "It is the only thing that can matter.   
No one can force you to make that vow. Others may stand between you and the   
ceremony but if you have the heart of a Ranger ... "  
  
"Is that why I'm here, Delenn?" Michael spat out. "So that you can tell me   
that I may have the heart of a Ranger, but I'll never wear the badge? Fine.   
Say it, and let's stop wasting everyone's time."  
  
The woman seemed honestly hurt by his anger, but after a moment she straightened   
and spoke with a quiet strength. "It was as Entil'Zha, as well as your friend,   
that I invited you to come to Tuzanor, and it is in my role as Entil'Zha that I   
accept the oath of all new Rangers and present them with their badges. The   
decision as to whether you will be among them lies with you ... " Garibaldi had   
felt chastened by her words, until a final phrase revived his anger. " ... and   
with your teachers." Still he held his tongue. She took his hand again. "Is   
there anything a friend may do to help?" she asked gently.   
  
The tenderness in her voice softened him. "I wish ... ," and he choked on the   
words, "I wish I had an answer to that. I go through the days. I do what 's   
asked of me. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail. But what does that mean,   
Delenn? How do I make sense out of success and failure? How do I balance   
learning Minbari grammar against losing the lives of a crew under my command? I   
struggle to learn to fight with sticks so I can face an enemy whose technology   
defies our understanding. And I learn to meditate, but on what?"  
  
Garibaldi listened to himself as though he were hearing the words for the first   
time, and in some sense, he was. All the unnamed dissatisfaction, the   
suppressed confusion came ripping out. Delenn's eyes never left his face, nor   
did her lips open in argument or excuse.   
  
"I've been here nearly two months, Delenn, and as you say, I'm coming to the end   
of the training. But training in what, Delenn? I've known the Rangers, out   
there where it matters. I've worked with them, seen them fight, seen them die.   
It was never about which verb to use or whether the ritual had been followed   
properly. It only rarely involved the denn'bok. It was about honor, and   
courage, and an inner confidence that the cause was absolutely just and your   
actions absolutely essential. That's what I came to Tuzanor looking for,   
Delenn.  
  
"Maybe I'm not cut out to be a Ranger. The last person who'd be surprised by   
that is me, but I'll be damned if I understand what the last two months of my   
life have to do with finding out." He caught his breath, felt resignation   
oozing into his body. "I wish I had an answer for you, Delenn, but I don't."  
  
He was ready to find rage when he met her eyes but he had not expected to find   
hope. "I suspect, Michael," she said softly, a trace of a smile beginning to   
form, "that when you have found the answer, you will no longer need the help."  
  
What the hell did that mean? Damn the Minbari! He swallowed hard but it did   
nothing to move the bitter lump that sat in the back of his throat, souring his   
mouth and blocking his breathing. "Why don't we just do what we came here to   
do, Delenn, and not drag it out?" He turned to face her squarely, straightening   
his body, setting his face, meeting her gaze.   
  
"We have done it, Michael, " she said with a nod. "You are expected at dinner."   
He refused to show any more of the emotion that was buffeting him. He bowed   
stiffly, and backed toward the door.   
  
"Michael?" she called after him. He stopped, but did not turn. "Michael, you   
have many friends -- more than you realize. They will help you, if you will let   
them."  
  
"I know, Delenn, " he whispered as the door closed.  
  
= = =  
  
The rituals of dinner were a comfort tonight, he thought bitterly, something to   
get him through this hour or two without having to make real conversation,   
without having to reveal himself or what was churning inside him. When the meal   
was over he fled, out of the dining hall, out of the building, somewhere Drew   
would not find him. He'd want to talk as they jogged, and Michael couldn't   
handle that tonight. He took refuge in the chapel, as he had come to call the   
smallest of the temples.  
  
What the hell had happened tonight? Was he just supposed to infer that he had   
washed out? Was he supposed to be noble enough to remove himself? Bullshit.   
He shook his head and sat down.  
  
So why was he staying? To make a fool of himself? To get beaten and bloody?   
Didn't need to come here for that, Michael. You've always managed those pretty   
well, wherever you were. Damn. He needed to get control of himself here, to   
think this through rationally. He emptied his lungs with a long slow exhalation   
and tried to relax as the air came rushing back in. He closed his eyes.  
  
Meditation. He laughed out loud. Who would have thought that this would be the   
one thing of value he would learn here? Him, of all people! The one thing of   
value. Two months, and only this to show for it?   
  
He focused on his breathing. What else have you learned, Michael? The   
breathing, focus on the breathing, shut off the voices for a while. Adronato.   
Now there was something he'd use all the time. Stop. Get yourself together.   
Breathe in. The military training wasn't new -- some variation here and there,   
a chance to get in tighter shape -- but he'd trained as a soldier long before he   
came to Minbar. A soldier and a pilot. Got a look at the White Star, at least.   
A sick feeling swept him and he forced his attention back to his breath.  
  
Why did you come, Michael? If not to train as a soldier, then why? Breathe...   
honor, and courage, and an inner confidence that the cause was absolutely just   
and your actions absolutely essential ... Essential. What's essential? And   
essential to what? Breathe, Michael. The cause. The war is over, damn it.   
Breathe out. Our war is never over, our army never stands down. The Army of   
Light. The light. Essential to the light. To truth. To peace. Listen to   
yourself. Get a grip, Michael.  
  
You're gonna change the galaxy. You're gonna make a difference. Sure. Jeff   
did. All this is his, his work, his legacy. Ranger One. How'd you do in   
training, Jeff? Breathe, damn it. Hello, old friend. Yeah, well, I've fucked   
up another job. Oh god, would you just breathe, damn it.  
  
He leaned forward on the bench and shook his head hard as though he could knock   
loose all the voices inside it. He scrubbed his face with his hands then ran   
them up over his head and down, down the painfully tight sinews in his neck.   
Are you prepared to take the Ranger oath? He sighed heavily.   
  
I am a Ranger. Not yet, Michael. From the looks of things, not ever. We walk   
in the dark places no others will enter. Been there. Done that. We stand on   
the bridge and no one may pass.   
  
It went quiet in his head. Awfully, sickeningly, viciously quiet. The voices   
must know, must know they don't have to tell me, that I can't ever forget. Oh   
damn. Will you breathe before you start crying again?  
  
He reordered his body, closed his eyes, tried to find a rhythm for his   
breathing. He had to fight to expand his lungs against the pounding heart that   
felt twice its normal size. He had to struggle against the sick feeling in his   
stomach. He had to force the breath past the ever growing lump in his throat.   
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter but the burning there told him the tears were   
back. He collected all his strength and tried to take another breath, but a sob   
racked through his body. He grabbed his gut and doubled forward.  
  
"Begin again." A soft voice from behind him, gentle hands on his shoulders. He   
sprang from the bench, whirling to face the owner of the voice.   
  
"Begin again, my ass! What the hell do you know about it? You can't begin again   
when people are dead, when you killed them, killed them by your incompetence, or   
your betrayal. How do you begin again when everyone you've trusted has   
abandoned you, or turned on you, or suffered because of you? How do you ask   
someone to start over with you when you know that they've gone through hell and   
you put them there? How do you begin again when you know a monster lives inside   
you? Why should you even try?"  
  
The other made no reply.   
  
Garibaldi left the temple.  
  
= = =  
  
Stupid!   
  
The door of the tiny room slammed behind him. Enough of this shit. He rummaged   
for his bag and threw it open on the bed. The chest shivered as he yanked it   
open, heaving the contents viciously toward the bag. He ripped off the   
waistcoat and tossed it back on the chest. You can have it back, Marcus. Give   
it back to the dead.   
  
He bit his lip and waited for the shivers to run their course. With at least a   
tentative hold on his rational mind again, he crossed to the bed and extricated   
a set of clothes from the chaos in, on, and around his suitcase. The rest he   
tucked inside, a bit more neatly. He stripped off the Ranger uniform, dressing   
again in his own clothes.  
  
Carefully, he folded the uniform and set it back in the chest, retrieving and   
adding the waistcoat last. The textbooks he returned to the shelf before   
scanning the room for anything else that might be his. All that was left was   
the pike. He lifted it from the table, staring at the metal cylinder in his   
hand. Idly, he snapped it open. Garibaldi tossed the denn'bok on the bed,   
collected his bag, and left.  
  
The air was cool when he stepped out of the barracks, and the compound was dark   
and quiet. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and headed for Tuzanor. He'd   
find shelter there tonight -- or not. It didn't matter. -- and get a transport   
in the morning. Somewhere. Anywhere. That didn't matter either. Not much did   
now.  
  
Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the approaching figure. Garibaldi jumped at   
the sound of his name.   
  
In answer, as calmly as he could, he said only, "Sech Navain." Garibaldi would   
give him his title, but he refused to bow.   
  
"It is a good night for a walk," Navain said without expression, but his eyes   
searched Garibaldi's with an urgency Michael did not understand.   
  
"Yeah," Michael answered, and adjusting his bag on his shoulder, he walked on.   
  
"Are you leaving?" Navain called after him.   
  
Garibaldi stopped, the anger bristling in him. "Yes," he said, looking over his   
shoulder at Navain. "I'm leaving. I have no business being here. Does it make   
you feel better to hear me say it?"  
  
"You cannot know that yet," Navain answered, ignoring the taunt.  
  
Michael spun on him. "What is that -- more of your cryptic Minbari philosophy?   
Save it. I don't need it, I don't want it. I'm gone, Navain. You can delight   
in that." The last sentence he spat out, the word 'delight' heavy with sarcasm.   
He turned his back and started away.   
  
"Michael, will you walk with me?" Garibaldi was incredulous. In his fury, he   
started to laugh. Navain approached him and said again, "Walk with me, please."  
  
The rage in Michael went quiet now, simmering rather than roiling. "I've been   
through the training. I've done what was asked of me the best way I could. It   
wasn't good enough. I don't see where we have anything else to talk about."  
  
"You haven't begun to do what you need to do." That turned the heat up under   
his anger, but the words of fury caught in Michael's throat as he fought violent   
urges. "Please, Michael," Navain said softly, "give me just a few moments.   
Then, if you wish, you may go."  
  
Something Michael did not understand made him listen. Something in the man's   
eyes. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he tried to understand why he was   
even considering this. No. He started to leave. "Wanna talk socks?" Navain   
said softly.   
  
"What the hell did you say?" Garibaldi moved on him.   
  
Navain laid a hand on Michael's elbow and gestured toward the compound. "Walk   
with me, Michael, please."  
  
They walked for several minutes in silence as Michael struggled to get control   
of his emotion. Navain spoke at last. "The path you've chosen is a difficult   
one."  
  
"It's all downhill, actually, from here to Tuzanor." Michael knew he was using   
the flippancy as a weapon, but it missed its mark.   
  
"But, contrary to what you think, you haven't yet done what you came here to   
do."   
  
Garibaldi really wanted to tell this guy off. Unfortunately, Michael thought,   
he was right. He hadn't known it himself until tonight in Delenn's office, but   
whatever it was that had drawn him here, whatever he had come to search for, he   
hadn't found it. But why the hell did Navain care, and what was that remark   
before?  
  
He realized Navain was waiting for him to speak, and though he wasn't sure he   
could, he made the effort. "I know." Michael was startled by the softness of   
his own voice. "What I was looking for isn't here."  
  
"You do not know that to be true yet either." They walked along in silence,   
with Garibaldi marveling at how irritating the man could be. After a time,   
Navain spoke again. "First, you must understand the task. You are just   
reaching that point. Soon you will be ready to begin your work."   
  
"To begin my work?" The confusion was obvious in Michael's face. "Are you   
trying to tell me to start the training over?" He should have left, Michael   
thought, when he had the chance.  
  
"The period of training is useful on different levels. It gives one time to   
learn new skills. It allows the Rangers to form personal bonds, loyalties that   
will serve them well later. Most of all, it provides a structure for the days   
in which the trainee must learn what is truly necessary for a Ranger:.. "  
  
Garibaldi stopped walking, both hands raised in front of him. "Right, I know:   
delight, respect, compassion. I've heard this speech. Excuse me, I'm outta   
here."  
  
Navain smiled broadly, for the first time Garibaldi could remember. "Often   
enough that you could give it back to me, I suspect. Please, walk with me."   
Sweeping out a circle with his hand, he bargained, "once around the compound,   
that is all I will ask." The deal was too familiar for Michael to refuse.  
  
"It is hard for you, I know, " Navain continued, "to accept the importance --   
even the relevance -- of those three. You have a quick wit, and, I suspect, a   
penchant for mischief, but I doubt you have ever been gentle enough with   
yourself to allow for true delight." Garibaldi shifted his bag uncomfortably on   
his shoulder. What did Navain know about who and what he was?   
  
"Respect is your currency, your bargaining chip. Earned. Given if received in   
return." You have a problem with that? Michael thought, but he held his   
tongue. Let's just get around the compound.   
  
"Compassion ..." Navain's voice trailed away. After a few steps, he said,   
"Each trainee has his or her own work to do in order to become a Ranger. You   
have begun to identify yours. Now you must put down your burdens so that you   
are free to work."   
  
Another argument was the last thing Garibaldi wanted, but he couldn't stand   
anymore of this mystical clap-trap. "Sech Navain, I don't want to be rude, but   
I don't understand why we're having this conversation. And I'm damn sure I   
don't understand what you're trying to tell me -- if anything. I can't speak   
Adronato to save myself. I've become the denn'bok equivalent of a tackling   
dummy. And today I proved that putting me in command of a White Star could well   
mean the end of the Rangers. Three strikes, Navain. I'm outta here."  
  
"Whatever problems you may have in the training," Navain said, "will solve   
themselves if you attend to the real work."   
  
Michael's temper snapped. "It must be nice to be so cocksure, to have all the   
answers. The master teacher. Delight, respect, compassion! When was the last   
time you were out there," he flung the words and an arm to the star-filled sky,   
"the last time you faced the terror and the death that real Rangers live with?"  
  
"Six months ago." The words stopped Michael in mid-tirade. Gesturing for him   
to walk again, Navain explained. "This is not my usual assignment, Michael. I   
was injured on my last mission and needed time to recuperate. This is what you   
might call desk duty."  
  
Why, Michael wondered, had he assumed Navain had been here forever? Age was   
part of it, that much he had to admit. Navain, Durhan, and Ardret were almost   
the only Rangers in Michael's experience who appeared older than himself. He   
blurted a question without stopping to consider its propriety. "How long have   
you been a Ranger?"   
  
The small smile that had been sneaking up on Navain's mouth ambushed his whole   
face. "Three years, next month." If that answer left Michael speechless, it   
did not shock him as deeply as Navain's next words. "Thanks to you."  
  
Garibaldi's mind and mouth formed the word "me?" but no sound would come out.   
The sight of his speechless companion drew a deep chortle from Navain. "Yes,   
Michael, you. Please, come." They began to walk again, although Michael's pace   
was not so hurried this time. "I had my own difficulties in training, Michael.   
The specifics are not important now, but like you, I found it difficult to take   
things like delight seriously. Like you, I had my bags packed to leave."  
  
Michael realized he was hanging on the man's words. "What happened?"  
  
Again Navain smiled. "Jeffrey Sinclair." As though he expected the reaction,   
he laid a hand on Michael's shoulder to urge him into motion again. "Entil'Zha   
took an interest in all the trainees of course, but for me, he did more. I do   
not know why. He helped me to face the work I needed to do, and in the process   
of that work I came to understand respect and compassion, but delight -- that   
eluded me. Worse, it upset me. I thought it a trivialization of all that the   
Rangers represent. And, if the truth be told, I was too angry to let myself   
experience it."  
  
"I spent many hours in conversation with Ranger One on the subject of delight.   
Many of those conversations might be better characterized as debates or   
arguments. A Jesuit lawyer, I believe is what he said he had been called."   
Garibaldi cringed to hear the title with which he had teased Jeff. "In those   
talks, Sinclair told me many stories, stories that delighted him -- and me. And   
he told me much about the friend who figured so prominently in so many of those   
stories."   
  
They slowed to a halt, having come full circle. Garibaldi turned to Navain,   
searching helplessly for words. "I have so many questions..."  
  
Navain nodded. "And I could provide responses. But you will not have answers   
until you find them in your own heart. Lay down the burdens, Michael. Do the   
work." With that, and nothing more, the teacher withdrew.  
  
Left alone in the compound, Garibaldi stared out at the stars, looking in to the   
depths. What had he come to find?...honor... courage ... confidence... But   
how? And what did Navain mean "put down your burdens"? What burdens? The   
question made him aware of the pack on his back and he swung it down from his   
shoulder. Dangling it from his hand, he looked toward the city then toward the   
barracks. Aw nuts. He threw the bag back over his shoulder and started for his   
room.   
  
= = =  
  
It didn't really make sense to try to sleep, Garibaldi thought as he dropped his   
bag on top of the chest. He'd have to be up again in a couple of hours. But   
facing a full day, even a shorter Minbari day, without some rest probably wasn't   
a great idea either.   
  
The fighting pike, extended to full length, still lay angled across the bed.   
Garibaldi lifted it carefully, testing the heft of it in his hand. He snapped   
it closed. Move faster, huh? Open. What was slowing him down? Closed. Was   
he just too old for this?   
  
He stretched out on the bed and pondered the ceiling, the metal cylinder cold in   
his hand. It's not the years, he thought, it's the mileage. A lot of mileage   
in the last year or so. Before Sheridan went to Z'ha'dum, before ... well,   
before, he was quick in a fight, he was quick with a joke. Before. An eternity   
masquerading as a year.   
  
And now it was after. Clark was gone, Sheridan was safe -- hell, President of   
the new Alliance. And everyone, Sheridan, Delenn, even Ivanova who had wanted   
him shot on sight, everyone had forgiven him. It wasn't my fault. They   
understood that. It wasn't my fault. But it was me. I was there. I saw it.   
I heard it. I did it.   
  
Sleep stole up on him in the mask of memory, and he was there again: tracking   
Sheridan's father, sending the message telling John he had to come alone. And   
he came, alone, undisguised, and unsuspecting. Trusting, believing that   
whatever had happened, Michael would not let any harm come to him. We stand on   
the bridge ...  
  
With all the ethereal substance of a dream, he was there again in the bar room.   
The tranq was in his hand, and then it was on John's. I told him not to fight   
it. If only he hadn't fought maybe it would have been different, maybe...   
  
He fought so hard. Undrugged, he might have had a chance, at least to get away.   
But I took care of that. I made sure he'd go down. And I watched. Screaming   
inside, but bound to the chair, bound as surely as if with rope. I watched him   
fight and I never left my chair. Together, what might we have done? How would   
things have been different if I had helped him, protected him, my CO, my friend?   
We stand on the bridge...  
  
But I didn't.   
  
I never moved, never tried.   
  
It wasn't my fault. But I was there. I heard it: the gasping grunts as they   
hit him, kicked him, over and over again. I saw it, saw him fall, struggle back   
up, and fall again, broken, bloody, but still fighting, still hoping. I felt   
it. All of it. Every blow to body and to spirit that took my Captain down.   
  
We stand on the bridge.   
  
I was there. I let them do it. It was me. I took him down.   
  
A sharp blow caught Michael's jaw, snapping his head back, rattling his teeth   
and jolting him fully and suddenly awake. The pike, extended now, lay across   
his body, one end resting on his right shoulder, the end, apparently, that had   
gotten his jaw. He closed the pike carefully, and rose from the bed. Setting   
the weapon safely on the table, he ran his fingers gingerly along his jaw. That   
was going to hurt for a while. Not bad enough every partner you've had has   
pounded you to a pulp, Michael. Now you have to do it to yourself.  
  
It didn't pay to try to sleep, not with the nightmare. He showered and dressed,   
once more in the uniform of the Ranger. Begin again.   
  
= = =  
  
Michael Garibaldi was on his fourth -- or was it fifth -- cup of coffee when   
Drew found him at breakfast. "Michael! Missed you last night. Is everything   
OK?" Was it the smell of the food from the young man's tray that made his   
stomach lurch, Michael wondered, or was it the question?  
  
"I needed to do some thinking." That was true, anyway.   
  
The young man pushed the pale hair out of his eyes yet again, affording him a   
better look at his companion. His eyes didn't leave Garibaldi's face as he dug   
into a plate of eggs. "Anything I can do?"   
  
"Nah." It flew quickly, automatically, from his mouth, then with greater   
consciousness, he added, "thank you." Michael realized that the younger man was   
still watching him, and he began to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.   
"What?" he barked defensively.   
  
"Nothing, " Drew replied still holding his eyes. "I just remember someone   
telling me that we need each other, that we can't do it alone."   
  
Damn you, Garibaldi thought, diving into his coffee. Don't do this to me. Get   
control of yourself and tell him politely to mind his own business. Michael   
drew down a long swallow, steeled himself , and raised his eyes to Drew's. "I   
appreciate ... " The rest of the words simply would not come out, not in the   
face of those pale blue eyes, eyes that studied him without taunt, without   
challenge, without demand. Just looked at him. With acceptance. And respect.   
  
Finally Michael forced out words. They weren't the ones he had intended, but   
they were all he could manage. "I can't do this now, not here."  
  
"Call the time, " the blond answered, his glance unwavering.  
  
"Tonight? After dinner?" Michael croaked. Drew acknowledged with a nod.   
Finally, he dropped his eyes to his breakfast, and Michael, relieved, sipped at   
his coffee.   
  
= = =  
  
Most of the morning seemed lost in a haze of fatigue and distraction. Garibaldi   
managed to get through the early sessions without embarrassing himself or doing   
any harm, and he figured that was probably the best he could hope for today.   
And then it was time for Navain's class. Every session with the teacher was one   
Michael had dreaded, had endured, survived. How would he face Navain now? What   
would he say? And what would Navain expect from him?   
  
As they filtered into the room Navain was indicating that they should seat   
themselves in a circle. That meant he would ask them to share stories, and that   
Michael hated most of all. He had never volunteered, and, mercifully, had never   
been put on the spot. When they were all in place, Sech Navain explained that   
he wished them to speak of respect.   
  
"Take a moment or two just to think before we speak, " Navain began, and then he   
was silent, as though following his own advice. "It is easy to speak of those   
we respect," he continued after a moment, "easy to talk of heroes. What I ask   
you to do today is a bit more difficult. I ask you to share with us the story   
of a moment when someone has shown you respect."  
  
Garibaldi braced himself for an hour of starry-eyed-kid-brother stories. He   
looked at Navain who seemed lost in thought. The first starry-eyed-kid-brother   
story began. Michael paid the courtesy of seeming attentive but his mind was   
elsewhere, rehashing what Navain had said to him the previous night. Other   
trainees took turns speaking, telling of family, friends and colleagues, stories   
of feeling appreciated, valued, honored. Michael thought about Navain and about   
Jeff.  
  
It grew quiet in the room and Michael felt himself getting nervous. He leaned   
forward in his chair, rested his arms on his knees, and prayed he wouldn't be   
challenged to speak. And then Drew was talking.  
  
"This may sound silly -- it's just a little thing. Someone, someone I respect,   
I look up to -- well, I sensed he was having a rough time and I just offered to   
listen, if he wanted to talk. I didn't think he'd accept but I wanted him to   
know that I saw and I cared. And he accepted. It's a little thing, like I   
said, but the idea that he would agree to talk to me that way ... When I'm   
confused or scared, I try to ask myself what he would do. That someone of his   
strength would be willing to accept help from me, to lean on me a little, I   
felt, well, honored."  
  
There were a few murmurs of approval from the group, as there had been for each   
speaker. Garibaldi found he couldn't take his eyes from Drew's face, though the   
young man made no attempt to look his way. Navain spoke a word of thanks, as he   
had for each trainee who had spoken, and indicated that there was time for one   
more story. The group quieted and a little voice in Michael's head told him   
escape was near. He almost didn't hear it, over the sound of his own voice in   
the room.  
  
He heard himself talking about the station, about his life before Babylon 5 and   
how Sinclair had wanted him as Chief of Security in spite of his record. Stop   
now, the voice inside his head said. You've already said way too much. He   
talked about the arrival of the ambassadors and the assassination attempt on   
Kosh, and the pressure from Earth for Sinclair to give the investigation to   
someone else. Why don't you just tell them you're incompetent, the voice   
challenged, and get it over with?   
  
"Sinclair was accused, and it was looking really bad. I offered him the chance   
to put somebody else in charge, admitted I wasn't sure if I could do it for him.   
He never flinched. Told me I was the right man for the job -- and a pain in the   
ass -- and he wouldn't have it any other way."  
  
There was laughter around him, warm, accepting laughter, and laughter within him   
as well. Navain thanked him, as he had done for the others, and dismissed the   
group. Garibaldi wondered if Navain would make any reference to the   
conversation of the previous night, or would expect him to, but the teacher gave   
him only a bow and a smile, and Michael followed the others out.  
  
= = =  
  
Garibaldi greeted his table mates as he sat down to lunch, still startled to   
hear Adronato from his own lips. Good-humoredly they all practiced their formal   
and informal expressions of best wishes and congratulations, while the young   
woman whose birthday provided the occasion for the drill giggled and blushed.   
As they turned to their food and talk turned to news from outside, Michael   
looked around for Jhevnak, but the Minbari was not at table.  
  
Hurriedly, Michael grabbed a few bites of his lunch, then begged excuse of his   
companions, accepted their applause for having chosen the right form for the   
apology, and bid them farewell. Maybe he would learn to speak Adronato someday,   
but right now he wanted to find Jhevnak.  
  
He stood in the compound outside the dining room. Where? Where would the young   
Minbari go? Back to his room? Or up in the hills? Trust your hunches,   
Michael. He headed for the temples.   
  
Slipping inside the door, Garibaldi eased it closed noiselessly. A solitary   
figure, head bowed, arms limp at his sides, stood before the statue of Valen.   
As Michael watched the Minbari raised his eyes to the figure of Valen, and   
Michael found his gaze drawn there as well.   
  
Who was he, this legend, at the center of Minbari society, at the heart of the   
Rangers? Minbari not born of Minbari, whatever that meant. Garibaldi the   
agnostic was uncomfortable with the near deification of the ancient leader, even   
more uncomfortable with the prophecies that Valen would return, and utterly   
panicked by the suggestion that Jeff Sinclair was that second coming. He   
suspected Jeff wouldn't have been real comfortable with it either.   
  
But Jhevnak had come here, come to Valen's statue. What had he come to find?   
Slowly, Michael paced off the aisle, positioning himself over Jhevnak's left   
shoulder, waiting for the Minbari's peripheral vision to detect him. "Is it   
true you knew him, Michael?"  
  
"Who?" Garibaldi inquired gently, drawing alongside the young trainee.   
  
"Entil'Zha." Jhevnak turned to look at him. "Sinclair." With a flush of   
awkwardness and a prayer that this would not be a theological discussion,   
Michael nodded.   
  
"And Sheridan?" the Minbari asked, his voice flat, his demeanor trance-like.   
"The one they call Starkiller?"  
  
Garibaldi winced to hear again the epithet. "Yes."  
  
They stood together in silence for a time before the Minbari spoke again. "It   
sounded so right, Michael, so just," he whispered, shaking his head. "I wanted   
to stand against the darkness, to defend the light, to protect my people. I do   
not know if I understood what that would mean."  
  
In the silent semi-darkness of the little temple, Garibaldi saw again a parade   
of moments, each of them a decision. He followed Jhevnak's gaze to the face of   
Valen. "We never do. None of us ever do." He laid an arm gently on the young   
man's shoulders and led him outside.   
  
  
By the time they assembled for the afternoon meditation, Garibaldi was   
apprehensive. Lack of sleep was beginning to get the upper hand on him, and he   
did not enjoy contemplating what Sech Ardret's reaction would be if he started   
snoring during the meditation. He would have to maintain enough control to be   
certain that didn't happen, even if it meant sacrificing some of the freedom he   
found in these sessions. He settled himself with his legs crossed left over   
right instead of his usual right over left, placed his hands in this lap rather   
than on his knees, and focused his eyes on the flame of a candle across the   
room. To close them now would be to court disaster.   
  
The breathing came easily, rhythmically.   
  
The flame, the fire, burning, consuming, the air, the breath, surrender, the   
fire.   
  
Fading, growing, the breath, the fire, bowing, leaping, the flame, at rest.   
  
Fire, test, crucible, purity, flame, light, hope, fire.   
  
The flame, the fire, fading, failing, fire, consuming, destroying, the light.   
  
Garibaldi looked over to where Jhevnak sat. Where was the fire Garibaldi had   
seen in him that first night? Sech Ardret's stern glance quickly signaled his   
disapproval of Michael's distraction. He returned his eyes to the flame.   
  
The flame, the fire, fading, bending, vanquished, broken, struggling, no!   
  
Fighting, broken, Sheridan, struggling, beaten, broken, defiant, the flame.   
  
Struggling, fighting, stubborn, rising, strong, growing, dancing, free.   
  
Mars, Edgars, struggling, vanquished, fighting, battling, defiant, free.   
  
The flame, the fire, hope, struggling, Sheridan, beaten, rescued, free.   
  
A hard shake of his head did little to throw off the memories. Garibaldi knew   
he couldn't do this now, couldn't let himself get drawn back into the nightmares   
of Mars. Not here, not out in public, with too much of the day still to get   
through. He needed to clear his mind, focus his energy before the denn'bok   
training.   
  
Centering himself, he acknowledged the images then willed his mind to release   
them. He could not ignore them, and would not, he knew, but right now, he had   
to let them go. Clear everything away. Just be still.   
  
Move faster. Don't think about the denn'bok now. Just clear your mind. Why   
couldn't he move faster? Let it go. What was weighing him down? Focus on the   
flame. Be still.  
  
A cold hand grabbed his spine and self-loathing curdled his stomach. You sat   
still enough on Mars.   
  
Stop it. Focus on the flame. Bending, flickering, fighting back to life. Like   
Sheridan, beaten, falling, struggling back. While you were still, perfectly   
still.   
  
Move faster.   
  
Just move.   
  
Damn it, move.   
  
Help him.   
  
Do something.   
  
The hand on his shoulder made him jump. Jhevnak stood over him, looking   
concerned. "Michael?" The young Minbari called him back to the here and now.   
"It is time to move on."  
  
= = =  
  
Pulling himself to his feet with Jhevnak's help, Garibaldi joined the trainee in   
the walk to the martial arts center. They found their places quickly and began   
the basic drills. Garibaldi searched within himself for just a little more   
energy to carry him through these last few hours. Still, with each throw his   
opponent seemed a little heavier, a little harder to bring down. After they had   
sparred a while, Sech Durhan signaled for them to begin their work with the   
pike.   
  
Even after all these days there was still an electricity in the simultaneous   
snap of the thirty-six pikes, a satisfaction in the sound that left Michael   
smiling through the solo forMs. When they partnered off, Garibaldi found himself   
facing Drew, and he hoped the kid would not hold back out of some misguided   
sympathy for the old man.   
  
He attacked, immediately and forcefully, to make it clear he expected no special   
treatment. Drew countered easily, and with a few quick blows, brought Garibaldi   
down. Michael rose, and they began again, this time with Drew on the attack.   
Clearly, he had worried needlessly.  
  
The kid is good, Garibaldi thought, and heard his teeth click together as a   
particularly deft maneuver sent him crashing to the floor. It was not just that   
he had taken Michael down -- by now it seemed everyone could do that -- but   
Michael really could see the moves, trapped as he was in that slow motion   
experience. Drew's form was precise, his movement fluid. The pike was an   
extension of his body, and he fought with an abandon reminiscent of Marcus Cole,   
Garibaldi thought, as he thudded to the deck again.  
  
He had to get serious about this. Move faster, they kept telling him. Michael   
shut his eyes for a moment and gathered his concentration, then sprang to his   
feet, and nodded to Drew to begin again.   
  
Faster, then. Stop thinking so much. Just go for it. He doubled over the blow   
to his gut, collapsed as the pike came down on his back.   
  
He forced himself back up without pausing to collect himself. Move faster, damn   
it. Let it come from your body, from your instincts. He felt his feet swept   
out from under him, too late to tuck or roll. He slammed to the floor flat on   
his back, his breath leaving him with a grunt.   
  
For one awful moment, memory seized him: the stench of stale beer , the mind-  
sheering audio, and the garish neon light of the bar room on Mars. The strobing   
snapshots were burned into his brain and every grunt he heard had ripped at his   
gut like it was his own. Gulping for air, he opened his eyes and saw a pale   
hand extending down to help him up, a hand offered in undeserved friendship. At   
last, he grasped it, accepting the help, and on his feet again, murmured softly,   
"thanks, John."  
  
"John?"  
  
Garibaldi's eyes darted to the face of the young blond, with an uncomprehending   
look.  
  
Drew smiled. "You called me John."  
  
"I did? God, I'm sorry." Garibaldi felt a warm flush of embarrassment and cold   
shiver of recognition. "Drew, I'm sorry."  
  
"No problem, " his sparring partner assured him. "Who's John?"  
  
Michael waved off the question, and they began again, but the slip stayed in his   
mind. A sharp blow to the ribs brought his attention back the combat. He   
blocked, dodged, saw an opening. A quick thrust right there would knock him off   
balance, would bring John down. John -- damn! he did it again. The opportunity   
long gone, all Michael could do was try to defend himself, to delay the next   
fall.  
  
He picked himself up. Move faster. Seize the opportunity. What are you   
waiting for? What are you afraid of?   
  
He drove himself, pushing physically and mentally, to break out of the morass of   
failure the denn'bok had come to symbolize for him. Do it, damn it. Hit him.   
Don't just stand there and let them beat up on you.   
  
He parried Drew's attack. Perhaps it could work. He thrust, and the pikes   
clanged together. He spun to dodge the reply. This was the longest he had ever   
lasted. Now attack.   
  
Hit him.   
  
Why can't you hit him?   
  
Move.   
  
Do something.   
  
Michael Garibaldi hit the deck again, face down, breathing hard, stinging from   
the blows that had dropped him. Maybe it was the pain, or his losing battle   
with fatigue, that made his throat tighten, his eyes burn, and his body tremble.   
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up from the floor, climbed to his feet.   
He bowed to his partner, snapped the pike closed, and wiped away his tears. 


	4. In Valen's Name 4/7

In Valen's Name  
Part 4  
  
  
  
= = =  
  
Garibaldi moved mindlessly through dinner, then headed for the compound, where   
he knew, Drew would find him. The young man hailed him a moment later, jogging   
to catch up. Seeing him, Michael eased himself into a trot, an easy lope that   
set him in stride with his colleague by the time the blond had reached him.   
They began their nightly run in silence, but by the first turn Michael found his   
voice.   
  
"You blew me away this morning, " Michael began at last.   
  
Drew looked puzzled. "Me? What?"  
  
Garibaldi had thought his emotions were under control, but the lump in his   
throat told him otherwise. "What you said, in Navain's class." He couldn't   
make eye contact.   
  
"Meant it. I am honored. You could have easily told me to fuck off." They   
were silent for a time. "Still can, if you've changed your mind," offered Drew.   
  
"No," Garibaldi said with a shake of his head, "just don't know how to start."   
  
The younger man waited a moment or two to see if Garibaldi would continue. "You   
said you needed to think. About what?"  
  
Michael smiled in appreciation of the trainee's gentleness. Hesitantly he began   
to share his confusion about whether he was meant to be a Ranger, his   
frustration with the training, his failure.   
  
"I don't think it all came together for me until last night. You know Delenn is   
here? I got called down, right before dinner. She was with Durhan and Ardret   
and Navain when I got there, although they beat it out right away. I figured I   
was getting the hook.  
  
"Delenn tried to be civil about it, tried to be kind. She was asking questions   
-- god, I don't even remember now what question it was that set me off -- but   
the next thing I knew I was yelling about how the training had nothing to do   
with what it really took to be a Ranger, and how I hadn't found what I came   
looking for. I lost it. I told her if she was going to scrub me, to just do   
it, and get it over with."  
  
"And ... ?" Drew asked when Michael lapsed into silence again.  
  
"And then," Garibaldi answered, "she made one of those cryptic Minbari comments   
that tells you these people spend altogether too much time with the Vorlons.   
And the meeting was over."  
  
"That's it?" Drew looked perplexed. To Garibaldi's "yup", he responded with   
another question. "So what did you do? I saw you at dinner, but you   
disappeared right after."  
  
"I took off to the chapel, to try to sort things out. Maybe that was the   
mistake. All I could think about was how I've screwed up my life again. That's   
the only thing I've ever been good at: fucking up. I couldn't take anymore. I   
went back to the barracks and packed my bag. I was on my way down to Tuzanor,   
to get the first transport out."  
  
He stopped, unsure whether he ought to share the conversation with Navain.   
Would he betray a confidence if he did so?  
  
"But you didn't leave, " Drew said softly. "Why?"  
  
A chill ran through Garibaldi as he heard Navain's voice in his head. "Yet you   
remain ... Perhaps you need to ask yourself why." He slowed to a walk and his   
companion matched the pace.   
  
Why did he stay? Because of Navain? The teacher was a good part of his reason   
for leaving. Did a few stories change so much?   
  
"I guess," Michael said at last, "because I can't bring myself to make a liar   
out of Jeff." He had to laugh at the flimsiness of the reason. But there was   
truth there, as well. "Jeff believed I could do this, believed I would do this.   
I owe it to him to at least understand why I can't. It's not fair to just walk   
away." He turned to look at Drew. "Does that make any sense?"  
  
The blond nodded, staring thoughtfully at the ground as they walked. "His faith   
in you has been important. That was obvious this morning." Drew tested the   
waters with a sidelong glance. "Thank you for sharing that story." They walked   
a while more. "So ... " he asked cautiously, " ... do you understand?"  
  
Michael struggled with the question a while, then tried to sort out what little   
he did understand. "I realized last night when I talked to Delenn that I came   
here looking for something, something bigger than training in this and classes   
in that." His pace quickened. "I've worked with the Rangers for nearly three   
years. I've seen who they are, what they are. I came here to be a part of   
that. But ... " The rest was a jumble.  
  
"A part of what, Michael?" Drew asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What   
makes a Ranger? Who are they?" He hung open-mouthed in wait for Garibaldi's   
answer.   
  
The words 'delight, respect, compassion' ran through Garibaldi's head, provoking   
a smile, but not escaping into the conversation. The real answers took longer   
to form, distilled from the images of countless Rangers who had reported to him.   
"They're people of honor and integrity ... " Michael shaped the words slowly,   
seeing their faces before him. " ... courageous ... " He shook his head. "   
... but not foolhardy. They've seen the Light and the Darkness and they've   
chosen the Light. They know how fragile and how precious it is." His body   
hunched inward to protect the unseen flame. "Nothing is more important to them   
than preserving and defending that Light." For a moment, just a moment, Michael   
thought he heard the fire.   
  
The younger man was wide-eyed, awed by the words echoing in his brain. "God,   
Michael, that's a beautiful definition," he said reverently. "We walk in the   
dark places no others will enter. They've seen the Light and the Darkness. We   
stand on the bridge and no one may pass. Nothing is more important than   
preserving and defending that light. The words are different but the meaning is   
the same." He stopped and studied Garibaldi with a look near to horror. "You   
came looking for that. You mean you don't feel you've found it ?"  
  
The urge to flee seized Garibaldi, a panicked desire not to have this   
conversation. He shook his head desperately from side to side, avoiding Drew's   
eyes. The blond sucked his breath in sharply and turned to walk again. Michael   
forced himself to fall into step.   
  
"But where? Where does it break down, Michael?" Drew's words were choked by   
disbelief, strangled by the refusal to believe.   
  
"What?" Garibaldi froze in place. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Listen to your own words, Michael," Drew pleaded. "Measure yourself against   
them. Where do you come up short?" The gaze that searched Michael's face   
prayed he would have no answer.   
  
His eyes were on the man who asked the question but Michael was seeing something   
else. Mars, through the distorting lens of the bottle. Mars, in the   
controlling tidiness of the Edgars compound. Mars, in the bar room strobe   
light. Mars, as the mind-shattering scream echoed in the transport tube. Mars,   
the prison of a near dead friend.   
  
Drew's voice was flat as he began a litany. "Aren't you a man of honor? Aren't   
you courageous? Aren't you ... "   
  
Garibaldi snapped back from where his mind had been reaching and saw the young   
man before him as if for the first time. "What?"   
  
"The first thing you said about the Rangers was that they were people of honor.   
Doesn't that describe you, Michael?" It was a challenge, a prod, a prayer.   
Drew stepped a little closer, his hands held out before him, as though to steady   
a stumbling hero.  
  
"No."   
  
The single syllable struck the younger man like a blow, tore through Garibaldi   
like a knife. He shook his head hard. "No, damn it, I'm not," he spat, still   
answering the original question. "Do you know why PsiCorps grabbed me? Because   
they knew what I was, what I am. A drunk, a fuck-up, a crazed, paranoid loser."   
He flung an arm up over his head as though to swat the despair, and turned away   
from his speechless companion. "They took me because I was already so worthless   
there wasn't much they had to do.   
  
"And they went in and made it worse," Garibaldi said, spinning to face Drew   
again, despair turning to terror. "They screwed with my mind to make it worse."   
His jaw twitched as he tasted the horror of it again, and his eyes narrowed as   
he saw again the days on station. "I couldn't trust anybody." His voice was   
flat; his head shaking numbly from side to side. "I ripped into the people who   
were trying to be my friends. Sheridan -- damn it, the shit I gave the Captain   
no one should have to put up with." He winced at the bitter taste of shame. "I   
rode him about Lorien. I accused him of playing god. I punched him out in   
front of the crowd on the Zocalo." The shock he saw in the young man's blue   
eyes was cold confirmation of the worthlessness he felt. "I walked out on my   
job -- but hey! why not? When have I ever had a job I haven't fucked up on?   
  
He turned to face the city, its moonlit crystal structures shimmering below   
them. Wordlessly, Drew approached him. Garibaldi's eyes were tightly shut, but   
when he sensed the young man at his elbow he began to speak again, a low   
sleepwalker's drone.   
  
"And then I sign on with Edgars. Slime of the galaxy, and I'm doing his dirty   
work. Hiding his shit from Zack, who's still trying to be my friend." His eyes   
snapped open as he clutched at his skull. Frustration fired through him and he   
paced out a tight triangle, a projectile ricocheting endlessly off invisible   
walls. "Firing Lyta on his say-so, lying about how I felt about Lise, saying   
yeah, yeah, yeah to his crap about the Captain being misguided and a threat and   
needing to be stopped."   
  
He stopped in front of Drew, staring into his eyes, seeing him, daring him to   
hear the story. "I go and snatch his dad, and hand him over to Edgars. The man   
was no part of any of this. A goddamn innocent, but that didn't stop me."   
Michael shook his head with a vicious sneer, but he didn't release the young   
man's gaze. His voice went cold. "I hunt him down and cage him, and use him as   
bait to lure the Captain into a trap. Shit! Boldfaced!"   
  
Anger returned to him, and a disbelief almost matching his listener's. "I lied   
straight out to Sheridan, fucking lied, and didn't even blink. I let him trust   
me, I asked him to trust me, when I knew, I fucking knew I was signing his death   
warrant."  
  
He meant to stop. It was enough, too much. He couldn't do this. It wasn't   
fair to the kid. But somehow the images kept forming, coalescing into words,   
tearing out of him. He couldn't stop.   
  
"I lured him to Mars," he continued, turning his eyes to the stars, "took him   
away from the fleet, put Susan in his place." He could see her broken body, and   
Marcus there beside her. "Why kill one friend when you can go for two, right?"   
He paused to watch those words shiver through the young man.   
  
"And he came, trusting me, believing I was gonna help him find his dad." A wash   
of pain greyed his face and he raised his arms in a gesture somewhere between   
prayer and surrender. "The whole fucking bar was Edgars' people. Sheridan   
didn't stand a chance. He walked right into it, because of me."   
  
He spit the words out, but the sour taint of self loathing remained. "Right to   
the end, he trusted me. And I didn't even hesitate. No guilt, no apologies. I   
betrayed him without thinking twice. Judas! " He spun and strode away as the   
tears began.   
  
"Michael!" Drew reached an arm out to him, but his feet would not move. He   
watched the figure move away and then, suddenly, stop and drop to his knees.   
Garibaldi's sobs had slowed by the time the young man reached him. The blond   
dropped onto the ground beside him, setting a hand gently on his shoulder.   
"Michael?"   
  
Garibaldi looked up into eyes searching for understanding. He knew the risk of   
sharing this nightmare with Drew. The kid's illusions were already shattered,   
and if Michael went on it could drive the young man away for good, but it was   
too late now, far too late to stop. He could walk away if he wanted to, but the   
story needed to be told, spoken aloud, if only for the night sky and Michael's   
soul to hear.   
  
"I drugged him," Michael explained coldly, watching for reaction in the young   
man's eyes. "He tried to fight his way out, when he finally realized what I'd   
done to him, he tried to fight his way out. But I drugged him." The cruel edge   
in Garibaldi's voice brought fear to Drew's face, fear Michael recognized all   
too well. "He couldn't even stand, much less fight. And there were so many of   
them, so goddamn many. Everywhere." He clamped his eyes shut again and clawed   
at his head. Drew's reaction no longer mattered. Nothing did. Nothing but   
confession.   
  
"He never had a chance. They pounded him. He tried so hard, so hard to fight   
back." The tears were back. He winced, the memory of Sheridan's courage   
compounding his shame. "In spite of the tranq, he kept getting up, fighting   
back. And they just kept beating on him. Punching, kicking. They didn't have   
to. Damn, they could have just grabbed him and carried him out. He was so   
fucking outnumbered." Garibaldi's eyes begged his friend to help him make sense   
of it all, but in Drew's face he found only horror. Michael nodded when he saw   
that. He may as well know the truth.   
  
"They beat on him, beat him down, crushed him." Michael snorted, a caustic   
leering laugh. "Shit. They liked it. It was a party to them."  
  
Again the laugh, but this time transmogrified into a sob, the first of many.   
Drew's left hand squeezed the shoulder where it still rested while the right   
reached up to touch Michael's face. But Garibaldi would not be comforted. With   
a roar he shoved the hand away and folded himself in on his grief. Moving   
himself in front of the tormented man, Drew settled down, his knees touching   
Michael's, his hands gently caressing Garibaldi's shoulders. He shed a few   
tears of his own as he let Michael cry.  
  
Garibaldi did not raise his head when he spoke again, did not open his eyes.   
His hands dropped to his knees and his body sank in sadness. "And there I was,   
his friend, the one he trusted, there I was, watching. Watching him fall,   
watching him hurt, watching him get the life kicked out of him." Memories   
filled with remorse, memories he would give his life to change, but couldn't.   
"And I did nothing. Nothing. I sat there and let them kill him. I never   
raised a hand or a voice to stop them, to save him, to help him." He was bent   
nearly double, crushed by grief. "I just sat there and let them."   
  
Drew felt the body tremble under his hands. He watched Michael's torso shudder   
as each breath he tried to draw fled from him again. At last Garibaldi   
straightened, taking hold of Drew's wrists to pull the hands from his shoulders.   
Their eyes met, and the young man paled at the emptiness of Michael's glance.   
  
"Of course, they didn't kill him," Garibaldi said dryly. "They would've if they   
could've, but Clark wanted him alive." His voice had the casual air of a man   
stating the obvious, but with each word, his grip on Drew's wrists tightened.   
"You can't torture a dead man.   
  
"After all that we'd been through, I handed my Captain over to Clark. Clark and   
his PsiCops. After all we shared, all we fought for, I gave him to those   
bastards." He threw Drew's hands back at him so hard the young man rocked over   
backward.  
  
"Michael, you weren't responsible," Drew cried out to him, as both men struggled   
to their feet. "It wasn't your fault."  
  
"That's what they all said," Michael snapped, staggering, laughing insanely.   
"They all forgave me, said it wasn't my fault." Frenzied, Garibaldi began to   
pace. "That's what I said. It's not my fault. It was Bester. It was   
PsiCorps. It's not my fault. But it's not true. It was my fault. It is my   
fault."  
  
He leaned forward to look up into the frightened blue eyes and snarled, "they   
used what was in me. They didn't plant something that had never been there   
before. The anger, the suspicion, the distrust, the hatred -- it's all there,   
was there, still is. Everything it took to betray Sheridan is part of me."   
Garibaldi straightened as the horrified trainee reeled back, away from the   
venomous hiss of truth. "It could surface again."  
  
Open-mouthed from shock, panting from the emotional workout, Drew gasped out an   
attempt at comfort. "No, Michael, that's not going to happen ... "   
  
"How the hell do you know?" Garibaldi screamed. Nose to nose with shuddering   
blond, he demanded, "you arrogant ass, how could you possibly know what I might   
do? How do I know? I swore to protect my Captain, and instead I led him   
straight to hell."   
  
With each backward step the young man took, Garibaldi took one forward, sneering   
into his face. "You think mumbling a few words about standing on the bridge is   
suddenly going to make some magical difference? I betrayed my CO, my friend."   
He backed off a step and spat the words to the ground. "What honor do I have   
left?"  
  
Garibaldi stood silent, staring vacantly. There were no tears left. There was   
nothing left. Nothing. Nothing left either for his silent companion, yet   
another innocent he had dragged down with him.   
  
Michael shook his head sadly at the sight of the kid, studying him, struggling   
to understand everything he had heard. Get out of here. See me for what I am   
and hate me for it and get out of here while there's still time to save   
yourself. But the words would not come out, and the young man did not leave.   
Michael Garibaldi did the kindest thing he could think of: he walked away.   
  
"His name is John, isn't it?" Drew's words struck Michael's back and knocked   
loose a forgotten sob. He froze, but could not turn back. Drew closed the   
distance between them and laid a hand on Michael's back, soothing the wound of   
his words. Nervously he stepped up beside Garibaldi, dodging when Michael   
turned to look at him. "Michael ... " His voice cracked when he tried to   
speak. Exasperated, Garibaldi pushed past him. The younger man scrambled   
around him, planted himself in Michael's path, grabbing him by the shoulders   
with a startling strength. "No."  
  
Garibaldi glowered at him, knocking his arms away. Drew blocked again, this   
time pinning Michael's elbows to his sides. "You can't walk away like this. I   
don't pretend to know what to say to you. I don't even know what I feel yet.   
But I know you can't walk away, Michael. Not now. Not like this. I can't let   
you."  
  
"Why not?" Garibaldi snarled. The stinging pain began in his throat but it   
spread: to his eyes, to his chest, to his soul. "Everyone else did." New tears   
washed his cheeks, and he surrendered to them. Timidly, Drew stretched his arms   
around to cradle Michael, and Michael, exhausted, did not resist. His arms were   
limp at his sides. His face dropped down on the young man's shoulder.   
Awkwardly at first, then with tenderness, Drew held him and let him cry.   
  
In time Michael wiped his eyes, and they stepped back from the embrace.   
Garibaldi mumbled an apology to the ground between their feet. And then he   
looked at the kid, still struggling with shock and fear, confusion and anger.   
"I'm sorry. I know this wasn't what you bargained for."   
  
Drew whispered out a laugh. "No, I guess it wasn't. But that doesn't change   
anything, Michael."  
  
"This changes everything." Michael's voice was steel.  
  
"Isn't it time to get past the excuses?" Drew fired back.  
  
Garibaldi's head jerked back and his eyes widened in rage, but the young man had   
a fire in him now too, and he wasn't about to stop. "It's over, Michael. I'm   
not trying to deny what you went through, to dilute the horror of what happened.   
But it happened -- past tense -- and damn it, you were part of the rescue, too.   
Sheridan is alive. Alive and well, and President of the Alliance. And he's   
forgiven you, you said that yourself. They all forgave you."  
  
Michael snorted. "Yeah, they forgave me," he muttered. "What does that mean,   
if they don't know the truth? They transferred the blame to Bester," he said,   
rolling his eyes at the name, "but none of them, none of them saw that it was   
me, that he may have been calling the plays, but I was doing it." He curled his   
lip in disgust. "They didn't forgive me. They just refused to judge me."  
  
"I know the truth," Drew began, straightening, but Michael cut him off.   
  
"And you forgive me?" He took a step back and looked his companion up and down.   
"Come on, kid! I never took you for stupid. Or a liar."  
  
The young man bit down hard on his lower lip. "You rocked me, Michael. Is that   
what you want to hear?" He paused, appraising the defensiveness in Garibaldi's   
stance. "OK, you've heard it. I don't know what I feel right now, and it'll   
probably be a long time before I do. But I know this: whatever wrong you've   
done, you've grieved for. You've wanted to right it, tried to make it right."   
Garibaldi looked away, and the young man, brazen now, stepped around him into   
his line of sight. "It's not my place to forgive you, Michael, but it's time   
you forgave yourself."  
  
"Never." One word, barely audible, carried infinite sadness.  
  
"Coward!" Drew spat back. He caught hold of Garibaldi's left hand an inch   
before it hit his face.   
  
"I'm going to throw your own words at you, Michael," Drew said defiantly,   
releasing the trembling arm. "They've seen the Light and the Darkness and   
they've chosen the Light. They know how fragile and how precious it is.   
Nothing is more important to them than preserving and defending that Light." He   
pronounced the words slowly, drawing them up from his memory, startling Michael   
by his ability to recall them.  
  
"All right! You've seen the darkness, Michael, yes, but you've seen the light   
too. All you can do, all any of us can do, is to choose the light. It doesn't   
make the darkness go away, doesn't make the light any less fragile." He stared   
into the blazing blue of Michael's eyes, watching the shifting emotion there.   
"But you fight for it, struggle for it, even when you're losing, even when you   
are the enemy. That's where the courage comes in."  
  
Michael Garibaldi was shaking. Fury, shame, despair, exhaustion, all now   
contended within him, making his heart pound, his breathing ragged. His limbs   
throbbed, his head ached, his eyes were swollen. Mindlessly he clenched and   
unclenched his fists as his arms hung limp at his sides. When he finally spoke,   
his voice was slurred.  
  
"Maybe I don't have the courage either."  
  
The response shocked Drew -- Garibaldi could see that -- but it no longer   
mattered. He was no hero. If that made the kid angry, so be it. He wasn't   
looking for forgiveness.   
  
The young man turned his head from side to side, a slow, exaggerated shake of   
disgust. "No honor, no courage," he said sadly. "Maybe Sinclair was wrong   
about you."   
  
"Maybe he was."   
  
Garibaldi shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked slowly back to the   
barracks. He would sleep. Beyond that he could see nothing.  
  
= = =  
  
The scream reached him first. From far off, from a pinpoint of light lost deep   
in the blackness of space, the scream reached him. It was terror and   
helplessness and the searing frustration of one whose life was no longer his   
own. It was the last desperate cry of a soul slipping away. It was his own   
voice.   
  
"Michael!"   
  
He cried out to himself but he could not answer. He searched the blackness but   
there were no stars. There was nothing. Nothing left.   
  
"Michael!"   
  
Something in him struggled, fought against the numbness. His body was leaden,   
his brain sluggish. Only a sliver of soul remained to resist the enveloping   
darkness. A tiny something that fought its way to the light.  
  
"Michael, wake up!"   
  
Jhevnak stood over him, shaking him hard. Garibaldi blinked against the   
multiple assaults of daylight in his eyes and young Minbari's voice in his face.   
He wanted only to push it all away, but his limbs did not answer readily to his   
mind's desires. Rousing slowly, he regained control of arms and legs as deeply   
asleep as moments ago he had been. Still fully dressed, right to the boots, he   
lay sprawled across the bed just as he had fallen there the night before. He   
propped himself, with great effort, on his elbows, and began to focus on   
Jhevnak's voice.  
  
"... you did not come down to breakfast, we were concerned, but did not wish to   
invade your privacy. When you failed to attend class we felt we must intrude.   
Michael, are you ill?"  
  
"No, " Michael answered, still trying to clear his head. "No! I'm not sick. I   
just overslept." He swung his leaden legs over the side of the bed and cursed   
himself for not having kicked off the boots. Sitting up slowly, he looked   
around the tiny room. "We?"  
  
Jhevnak did not appear to notice the query. "You are late, Michael. We must   
hurry."   
  
Garibaldi was not about to hurry anywhere just now. "You go on without me ...   
"   
  
"It is kind of you to think of me, Michael," Jhevnak said, extending a hand to   
Garibaldi, "but right now we have a class."  
  
Michael accepted the aid as he got to his feet. "And you shouldn't be missing   
it. Certainly not for me. Go on now. I'll be there as soon as I clean up."   
  
The Minbari hesitated, waited for Michael to make eye contact. "You are   
coming?" he asked, a sad suspicion in his voice.   
  
Michael tipped his head back, pressing his lips together in a thin smirk of   
recognition. "Yes. I'll be there," he confirmed with a nod of resignation. "I   
just need a few minutes." Jhevnak gave a small bow -- a gesture Michael   
awkwardly returned -- and strode from the room.  
  
"Jhevnak?" Michael's voice stopped him at the door. "Thank you," Garibaldi   
said as their eyes met.   
  
= = =  
  
He would have expected to feel better than this after a night's sleep, Garibaldi   
thought as he joined the other trainees on the obstacle course. He'd missed the   
Adronato lesson completely, which didn't feel like a loss right now, and he   
wasn't sure why he was here at all, except that it mattered to Jhevnak. That   
wasn't enough, he knew, but he had no reason to go either, nor a place to go.   
Inertia manifest; entropy at work.  
  
He went through the motions of the obstacle course, thoughtlessly, carelessly,   
joylessly. He kept to himself when he could, interacting only with those who   
could not be avoided. For one awkward moment his eyes met Drew's but the width   
of the course separated them, and neither tried to hold the glance.   
  
If only Jhevnak could have let him sleep through Navain's class. How was he   
supposed to behave toward the teacher today? Their conversation felt like a   
lifetime ago. How many times had the world turned upside down in the last --   
what?-- two days?   
  
Navain proposed a situation to the group, a confrontation with an enemy.   
Questions were raised about the meaning of respect for one's enemy, of what it   
meant to be an enemy, of justice, and revenge, and compassion. There was much   
discussion, noted the corner of Michael's brain that was actually listening, but   
no resolution.   
  
Given his lack of attention, the question was embarrassing. "Have you anything   
to add, Michael?" Navain had never put him on the spot like this before. Why   
now?   
  
Still, he was too numb to be resentful. He shook his head. "No."  
  
"You have faced an enemy, have you not?" Navain pressed him.  
  
Garibaldi scowled and made no attempt to hide it. "Yes."  
  
The teacher nodded along with him. "And you have no thoughts on the question?"   
  
Saving face was meaningless now, and Garibaldi was too tired to play games. "I   
don't know what the question is."  
  
From the other side of the room came the voice of a trainee. "When the battle   
is over, must the enemy be destroyed?"  
  
A cruel laugh escaped Michael. "If the enemy isn't destroyed, the battle isn't   
over."  
  
"You don't believe that peace is possible?" asked another voice.  
  
He was shooting from the hip. "I've never known it."  
  
The Minbari woman from their lunch table objected. "But what about our peoples?   
We have made peace."   
  
Diplomacy be damned. "Truce. All you ever get is a truce. A watchful cease-  
fire. An uneasy truce. You notice no one ever talks about an easy truce?"   
  
"Then you would destroy me?" asked Jhevnak coldly.  
  
Michael flinched. "I didn't say that."  
  
"Didn't you?" the Minbari insisted.   
  
"You're not my enemy." Garibaldi squashed his annoyance, and looked to Jhevnak   
with a pleading glance. It was, he realized, himself he was annoyed with, and   
he wished he could erase all of this.   
  
"Who is?" Drew's voice fired the challenge.  
  
Michael halted, open-mouthed, just before the words "I am" could escape. "I'm   
sorry," he said in a wave of embarrassment, "this is coming out all wrong."   
  
"It is important that it come out, not that we judge it." Navain interjected.   
Garibaldi looked at him accusingly, angered that the teacher had begun this.   
Navain seemed about to speak again, but Jhevnak pressed the point.   
  
"Earth and Minbar went to war. Humans and Minbari were enemies." The young   
Minbari challenged his friend. "You say the battle is not over unless the enemy   
is destroyed, yet neither Humans nor Minbari have been destroyed, so, by your   
logic, our battle is not over. We are enemies." His eyes dared Michael to   
respond.  
  
"We've gotten past that," Michael slung back, trying to fight his way out of   
this corner.   
  
"How?" Jhevnak was not about to let him escape.  
  
"We live together, work together," Michael answered, his arms waving in a   
gesture that included the whole group in the statement. "We know one another.   
We're not faceless pilots in fighters with the wrong markings." His eyes were   
on Jhevnak. "We have become friends."  
  
"So change is possible?" It was Navain's voice.  
  
"Yes." Garibaldi replied with irritation. Life is change. Stupid question.  
  
"Redemption?" Navain asked gently.  
  
Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Yes," he answered suspiciously.  
  
Navain had one more question. "Forgiveness?"   
  
A small muscle on the right side of Garibaldi's jaw twitched as he bit his lower   
lip. He pushed back in his chair, looking around with a nervous smirk and   
arched eyebrow. Forcing out a hollow sounding chuckle, he tried to be casually   
flippant. "Forgiveness? That's when you kiss and make up so you can gang up on   
the new guy you found to blame, right?"  
  
No one laughed. Enraged to feel himself blushing, Garibaldi leaned forward   
again and let his head drop. No one spoke, but the noise of his heart pounding   
wouldn't have let him hear them anyway. He fought for his control, speaking at   
last through gritted teeth, but still refusing to yield.   
  
He looked straight at Navain. "To answer your question, yes, I suppose   
forgiveness is possible, but I don't think it happens very often." His gaze   
shifted left to Jhevnak, there beside the teacher. "We go forward, because we   
have to." Raising his voice a little, he let his eyes skim over the group   
listening so intently to him. "We work out ways to do that in spite of the   
wounds." And there was Drew. "But the wounds are still there, they still   
throb, and sooner or later, somehow or another, you pay."  
  
No one responded. Michael had nothing more to say and no more wish to let   
Navain provoke him. He dropped his gaze and tried not to notice the silence.   
At last the teacher spoke. "We must end for today. Perhaps we can speak more   
about this another time."  
  
Even as the group moved out to lunch there was a hush over them. Garibaldi   
remained in his chair, waiting awkwardly for the others to leave, hoping no one   
would speak to him, trying to understand what he must do next.   
  
= = =  
  
He had little appetite for lunch or the company it would mean. He left the   
classroom building and struck out alone across the compound, into the hills that   
rose beyond the camp. He followed the first path he saw, climbing the crystal   
formations, finding signs of life in his body again, letting his mind go numb.   
He felt the large muscles in his arms and legs warming with the movement, his   
rib cage expanding and contracting as his breathing deepened. From high   
overhead a brilliant sun reflected off the crystalline rock, heating the air to   
a shimmering dryness. Michael felt the slick of sweat spread over his skin, a   
welcome, cleansing sheen. His hungry inhalations were audible now, their rhythm   
in time with the motion of arms and legs, a rhythm he struggled to hold even   
when the path became steep or obstructed by outcroppings of rock. The ground   
felt good beneath his feet, solid rock, yielding soil.   
  
His mind was quiet, aware only of the corporeal experience, the sight and sound   
and smell and touch and taste of this moment in this place. It was pleasant and   
strangely calming, not a somnambulant soothing but the energizing harmony of   
meditation. He was grateful to be here, thankful for this place and the   
opportunity to enjoy it. He felt giddy from the intensity of it, the watery   
blues of the crystal formations, the orange -- no, oranges -- of the flowers:   
bittersweet, tangerine, apricot, salmon, pumpkin, flame. Drunk with the   
sensation, Michael reveled in the realization that, unlike an alcohol-induced   
torpor, this high left him feeling keen, crisp, ready for any crisis.   
  
Garibaldi scrambled over a rough section of rock, losing his footing and falling   
hard. He winced as a sharp edge of rock dug into already bruised ribs, but   
pulled himself to his feet and returned to the mantra of his breath. Falling   
and getting up again. It wasn't so hard when there was a rhythm to fall back   
into. His quadriceps burned with the exertion of the climb. When there was   
work to do, some thing, some job you could do, to prove yourself, to repair, to   
repay, redemption was possible; hard work, but possible.   
  
The path lost itself here, no longer clearly defined by the footfalls of those   
who had come before. With no clear direction, each step was a new choice. It   
was harder now to keep the pace. His demanding lungs pounded the rhythm as his   
innate stubbornness drove him to move in time. He chose, and chose again,   
moving his feet, one with each breath, not waiting to consider where the choice   
would take him.   
  
Until the cliff.   
  
Faced with nowhere to go except straight down, or back as he had come, he   
retraced his steps, examining his choices, wondering which had been the crucial   
one, the turning point. Choices. Mindless, thoughtless choices, but choices   
just the same, and because of them, now there was nothing to do but to go back   
and start over.   
  
From where the path dissolved, he tried again, still pushing himself, but   
humbler and more thoughtful now. This new route was a rough scramble, on hands   
and knees, over jagged rock, on foot, jumping crevices. Difficult this climb   
was, exhilarating but not without its terrors. But it was the right course.  
  
At the summit, high above the Ranger camp, he stopped. Arms and legs fidgeted   
and twitched in protest, crying out against the curtailed motion. His eyes   
swept the camp laid out to view below him, their pendulum motion slowly   
narrowing to the arc between the Entil'Zha's quarters and the temple that housed   
Valen's statue.   
  
Valen, and Jeff Sinclair, those two who somehow embodied the Rangers,   
personified what he now aspired to be. Valen. Minbari not born of Minbari.   
Who was he, behind the legends? The great leader, the near god, who appeared,   
seemingly from nowhere, just when he was needed, knowing and doing all that was   
necessary to unite the Minbari, and win the great war. Valen, the creator of   
the Rangers, who defined the role and the regimen they still followed a thousand   
years later, who seemed to simply disappear again, the rest of his life a   
mystery.   
  
And Jeff Sinclair. His Commander, and his friend. The man who had faith in   
him, trusted him, when no one else did, not even himself. The man who gave him   
a chance, a chance he hadn't earned and didn't deserve, a chance to prove   
himself, to redeem himself, to believe in himself. The chance he grabbed at, in   
spite of Lise's fury. The chance that looked like it could change his life, or   
let him change his life. Jeff would tell him it was all in his hands.   
  
Sinclair, so suddenly gone, so impossible to reach. Sinclair, who entrusted the   
knowledge of the Rangers to him, once again, from afar, putting his faith in his   
friend. Sinclair who hid his plans for Babylon 4, enlisting Sheridan in the   
deception, to prevent Michael from going with him, leaving him instead with the   
message inscribed now in Michael's heart. Jeff Sinclair, who stayed on Babylon   
4, taking it back through the time rift, back to Minbar in the time of the great   
war against the Shadows, back to the time ...   
  
... of Valen.   
  
Michael Garibaldi folded himself down to sit cross legged on the ground. Images   
of Delenn's chrysalis flashed before him, cross cut with memories of his   
conversations with those who had gone with Jeff to Babylon 4. Could he find it   
in his skeptic's soul to believe the whispered claims? Minbari not born of   
Minbari. Born of humans? A human carrying a Minbari soul? But why? Why Jeff?   
Why not?   
  
'Yes' was too far to reach, but for the first time, he found he could entertain   
a 'maybe.' Maybe it was possible, maybe in some crazy way, Jeff and Valen were   
one and the same. Whether he believed it changed very little. It might be   
easier to accept Jeff's leaving, both the first departure to Minbar and the   
ultimate farewell from Babylon 4. If Jeff had a destiny perhaps Michael could   
understand his leaving. Perhaps, but why hadn't he let Michael go with him?   
Unless he believed Michael had his own destiny.   
  
He couldn't have known, of course, all that would happen after he went back.   
Perhaps the Michael Garibaldi that Jeff knew did have some destiny, but that   
Michael was gone, lost in the nightmare of the last year. Jeff could not have   
foreseen what he would do, what he would become. No one could. Squinting   
against the thought, he threw his head back and let loose a cynical chuckle. If   
Sheridan could have seen the future he would have made certain Michael went with   
Jeff. Could even Jeff believe in him now? Could even Jeff forgive him?  
  
Unfolding his legs, Michael hugged them to his chest, rocking gently. He bent   
his head forward, resting his forehead on his knees, eyes closed, enjoying for   
just a moment longer the messages from his senses. All his muscles rippled as   
he hauled himself to his feet, and began the downward walk.   
  
Scrambling up had been strenuous; scrambling down was treacherous. Garibaldi   
moved delicately over the rocks and vegetation, slipping in spite of his care,   
sliding down the rocks. Even when he reached the path he found the pitch of the   
incline a hazard that required some fancy dancing to keep his feet under him.   
Never much of a dancer, he was grateful when the grade began to ease. He   
stretched out into a normal stride, letting his arms swing comfortably at his   
sides.   
  
It was a small thing, a stone in the path, he thought, though it happened so   
fast he couldn't be sure. Something caught his foot, causing him to stumble.   
He lurched forward, arms out for balance, feet rushing to catch up with his   
hurtling body. His right foot found the ground first, but balance eluded him as   
his weight came down. The ankle buckled and energy of the fall was translated   
sideways, tangling up his legs as he clutched at the air. The clump of   
vegetation at the edge of the path could not support his floundering, and he   
fell, tumbling wildly down the hillside.  
  
Old instincts made him tuck, roll, protect his head, but a newfound calm allowed   
him to ride out the experience. He made no frantic grabs at rock formations, no   
desperate digging in to stop his fall. He simply let it happen, while a corner   
of his mind marveled. It hurt; he would not pretend otherwise. Every inch of   
him seemed to find some rock to crash down upon, adding new layers of bruises to   
the denn'bok's work. Still, he didn't need to panic. He had fallen before,   
probably would again, and this would stop in its own time.   
  
It did stop -- he did stop -- a good deal later and lower on the hill that he   
would have liked. He lay still there curled as he was into a little bundle,   
just waiting for his breath to return. When the burning in his lungs subsided,   
he began to inventory his body, gingerly moving first legs, then arms, then back   
and neck. All systems reported in as functioning.   
  
Reassured that he had survived the fall without major damage, Michael rolled   
over and stretched his body out on the ground. He lay there quietly just a   
moment longer, wondering if this long, hard fall were an omen for the journey he   
knew he had to undertake. Folding his arms behind his head, and laughing at his   
own superstition, he resolved to get up and be on his way. For the first time,   
he opened his eyes to see where he was.   
  
The hand was the first thing he saw. Garibaldi's eyes moved from the pale,   
strong, open hand above him up the arm of the Ranger uniform to the brooding   
blue eyes peeking from under the shock of golden hair. Drew was unsmiling, and   
made no attempt to speak, only stood there, hand extended to a fallen comrade.   
Michael wondered how long he had been there, and why he was here on the   
hillside, and most of all, what he was thinking and feeling right now.   
Searching the young man's eyes for some hint of an answer, Garibaldi was   
ambushed by the range and the depth of his own emotions. Anger, shame,   
ferocious pride, sadness, hope, and an oddly poignant gratitude tumbled within   
him like puppies in a basket.   
  
Why was this hand offered? And what would accepting it say? He waited,   
uncertain, silently begging Drew to say something, anything that would move them   
through this moment. No offer of words was made, nor was the extended help   
withdrawn, and tentatively, Michael reached up and clasped the young man's hand.   
Their eyes met for a moment, Michael's full of questions, Drew's yielding no   
answers. Garibaldi planted his feet and a heartbeat later, by their common   
effort, he was standing face to face with the young trainee.   
  
Hands still clasped, they stood in the afternoon sun. Michael wanted to speak   
his thanks, to ask so many questions. But what questions? Are we friends   
still? Again? So trite. So true. He wanted to erase the whole conversation,   
to make believe it never happened, and to tell Drew how profoundly grateful he   
was that they had had it. He wanted to tell the kid to drop him, to find   
someone else to look up to, and beg him not to leave. He wanted to thank his   
comrade for his faith, his confidence, and scratch out these eyes that saw him   
for what he was. None of the words would come. He tightened his grip on the   
young man's hand and was answered with a trace of a smile. Their hands dropped   
and with a nod, they went each on his own way.  
  
= = =  
  
Garibaldi made for the barracks, brushing himself off as he went. This would   
not take long, but the sooner done the better. He collected a few items from   
his room and throwing them into a bag, started to Tuzanor at a jog.  
  
Halfway across the compound he pulled up short. One last thing to take care of   
here. He slipped quietly into the temple, let his eyes adjust to the half-  
light, and approached the statue of Valen.   
  
The highly stylized carving was merely a suggestion of an image: the Minbari   
bone crest, the flowing cape of the Entil'Zha, and a detailed carving of the   
Ranger pin, were the only clearly focused features. The rest was obscure, and   
no one would dare to say from this what Valen looked like. Michael Garibaldi   
knew that, and knew that what he was doing was foolish. Still he studied the   
face of Valen looking for Jeff Sinclair.   
  
He spoke aloud at last, a soft voice in the soft light filtering through the   
crystal panes, but he spoke without thought of embarrassment at being overheard.   
"I don't know if it's you, Jeff. And I don't know -- whether it's you or not --   
if there's anyway you can know what I'm saying, what I'm feeling right now. But   
I wanted to thank you. I don't think I ever did, really. You trusted me,   
believed in me. You gave me a chance, a lot of chances, to be the man you   
believed I could be. I should have thanked you for that a long time ago." He   
shook his head sadly.   
  
"I'm sorry I never told you how much that meant to me, how much you meant to   
me." He caught himself gesturing, and shoved his hands down into his pockets.   
A quick glance assured him he was alone. "Your friendship was the one solid   
thing in my life, and to wake up and find you gone was like having the ground   
fall out from under me. I was angry, Jeff, angry and scared."  
  
Hunching his shoulders, Garibaldi began to walk, pensively tracing a figure   
eight on the temple floor. "It took a long time for me to believe I could do it   
without you, but it happened. I never stopped missing you, but I made the job   
mine, started to call the place home.   
  
"When you brought me in on the Rangers I started to realize you had bigger   
things going on than you were talking about. I tried to trust you, Jeff, the   
way you trusted me. But when I got your message, when I found out about Babylon   
4, Jeff, I was so angry I couldn't see straight. I still don't think I   
understand why you wouldn't let me go with you, but maybe, maybe now I   
understand why you had to go. "  
  
He stopped now and looked up again at the figure looming above him. "I can   
forgive you now, Jeff. It feels stupid to say that -- me forgiving you -- but I   
need to say it, and I hope you can understand. I don't know if you have any way   
to know all that's happened, what I've done. I don't know if you can ever   
forgive me, and it scares the hell out of me to think that if one decision had   
gone differently it could have been you I turned on." He shook his head to   
empty it of the horrible images.   
  
"There's something I have to do now, Jeff. When that's done, maybe I can come   
back here and finish what I started. I'd like to do that." A wry smile crept   
up the right side of his face. "I'd like to prove you were right about me," he   
said with a chuckle, "but I have to do this first. I hope you can understand   
that, Jeff. I hope you can forgive me.  
  
Garibaldi shifted his bag on his shoulder and took a long last look at Valen.   
"I miss you, old friend."  
  
His footsteps echoed in the temple's half-light as he strode to the door.   
"Michael." The voice was deep, gentle, pleading. Garibaldi stopped and turned   
to face its owner, as he spoke again. "You must not leave now. Finish here."  
  
There was no anger in Michael's heart and he found himself surprised by that.   
He smiled gently, shaking his head, mouthing a "no." He drew himself up a   
little straighter before he spoke. "I want to finish, Sech Navain," Garibaldi   
found himself reassuring the teacher. "But there is work I must do first."   
Navain started to interrupt but Michael silenced him with a look. "You told me   
yourself: put down the burdens and do the work. I finally understand that. I'm   
carrying around some awful heavy baggage, stuff that's weighing me down. I've   
got to get rid of it, and that's what I'm trying to do. Don't stand in my way."  
  
"If you leave now you may never complete your training," the Minbari protested.  
  
"If I don't do this, I will never be a Ranger. I could stay and go through the   
motions of the training, but I can't speak that oath until it's part of my   
soul." He could see the recognition of truth in Navain's eyes. "This is   
necessary," Garibaldi continued softly, adamantly. "If it goes well, I'll be   
back, and I will finish my training. If it doesn't, " he considered for a   
moment, "well then, none of it matters."  
  
In the stillness of the temple, they studied the truths in one another's eyes.   
Slowly, the Minbari began to nod. "You have learned much." Michael breathed   
out a little laugh.  
  
"Delight. Respect. Compassion." He chuckled at Navain's pained look. "The   
truth is, you were right. That is what it's all about. And that's why none of   
it will work until I deal with this."   
  
Uneasy with the self-revelation he was about to attempt, Garibaldi dropped his   
eyes to the floor. "I can't delight in who I am. I can't respect myself. I   
can't be compassionate enough to forgive myself. Not until this is done." He   
peeked at the teacher from under lowered lids, relieved to see him nodding. "I   
have to put this burden down, and then I can do the work."  
  
Navain nodded again, a smile skimming momentarily over his lips, taking refuge   
in his eyes. "Go then," he said, pressing his palm to his heart before   
extending it to Michael, "in Valen's name."  
  
A roar bubbled up from deep inside Michael, a hodgepodge of joy and relief,   
irony and resolve. It escaped him in a thundering laugh as he looked once more   
to the statue of Valen. Nodding his satisfaction, he returned the salute. "In   
Valen's name." 


	5. In Valen's Name 5/7

In Valen's Name  
Part 5  
  
  
  
= = =  
  
The customs area on Babylon 5 was a crush of bodies: human, Narn, Minbari,   
Drazi, Centauri, you name it. A drone of voices, the commingling of myriad   
incomprehensible dialects, floated over the ambient noises of the station: the   
faint hum of engines, the whir of the automatic doors, the blare of the com   
system. A few fragments of English jumped out at him, and to his surprise,   
snatches of Adronato as well, isolated intelligible sounds flying by.   
  
Garibaldi shifted his weight from foot to foot, impatience rustling within him   
and around him. He joined the chorus of waiters craning to find the reason for   
the delay, and noted with amusement the Centauri loudly haranguing the customs   
agent up ahead.   
  
At least that much hadn't changed. Or had. Things had changed, back from the   
frightened few travelers of the dark days of rebellion, back to this teeming   
madhouse he remembered with an irritated fondness. Driving his hands deep into   
his pockets, Michael tipped his head forward and closed his eyes against the   
sights of the customs area and the concourse beyond. Every muscle seemed to   
twitch with the urge to take charge, to silence the Centauri, get the line   
moving again. Not his watch, not any longer.   
  
He rolled his head in a slow circle to dispel the tension. Jostled from behind,   
he opened his eyes to see that the line was moving again. He scanned the faces   
in the crowd as he stepped forward, his investigator's mind still cataloging,   
judging. His gaze settled on a face he knew, a Drazi merchant who had once been   
his client. Michael smiled and raised a hand in greeting, but the Drazi,   
averting his eyes quickly, turned his back to Garibaldi and moved away.  
  
With no luggage to speak of, Garibaldi expected to pass through the inspection   
quickly, so he was startled when the agent did a search of his little bag.   
Recognizing her as a young officer hired just before he resigned, Michael tried   
to joke, but she made no acknowledgment. If she seriously thought he had   
anything concealed in there, though, she was not going to find it with that   
pitiful rummaging. She ought to have been taught to do a proper search, taught   
where and how to look for hidden pockets and false bottoMs. He accepted the bag   
back from her with a bit of irritation, finally getting contact with her annoyed   
green eyes as he suggested that next time she look under the lining. Garibaldi   
moved out onto the concourse still feeling like he was on the wrong side of this   
whole process.   
  
The feeling of role reversal heightened when he spotted Zack Allan. His former   
second had grown into the job, no longer looking edgy in the command uniform,   
comfortably giving orders to the security agents on duty. A bittersweet smile   
crossed Michael's face as he realized his confidence in the young man had proved   
sound. He approached the Security Chief and waited for him to finish his   
conversation before greeting him. "Hey, Zack."  
  
Nothing had ever crossed Zack Allan's mind that didn't show in his face, Michael   
thought, flashing on the memory of one particular poker game. In the moment's   
pause, Allan's eyes widened and the beginnings of a smile showed around his   
mouth, then that mouth clamped down into a thin-lipped sneer as suspicion   
clouded his eyes and furrowed his brow. Finally, as though he realized how   
obvious it all was, Zack blushed, stammered something incoherent, and shifted   
his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.   
  
Feeling awkward now himself, Garibaldi tried to smooth the moment by repeating   
his greeting. "How are you, Zack?"   
  
Zack's forced smile accompanied a too-formal response. "Mr. Garibaldi, what   
brings you back to Babylon 5?"   
  
Michael winced at this impossibly stiff welcome from the man who had been his   
protegé, who had tried to be his friend, the man he had repeatedly driven away.   
This was, he supposed, what he deserved, but it wasn't what he wanted. "Zack!   
Has it been that long?" he chided, trying to keep it light. "It's Michael."  
  
The younger man remained uncomfortable, his eyes shifting nervously. Out of old   
habit, Michael followed the darting glances, realizing uneasily that Allan was   
checking the locations of the nearest security agents. Zack's eyes met   
Michael's momentarily, then dropped to the floor as he cleared his throat.   
"Yeah, well, ... " His voice faded away.   
  
No easy way out, Michael. You'll have to face this head on. He edged a little   
closer to Allan, dropping his voice to near a whisper, maneuvering for eye   
contact. "Zack, a lot went down between us before I left the station, a lot   
that I regret. Things I never should have said, attitude you didn't deserve.   
I'm sorry for that, all of it." His voice, calm and controlled when he began,   
trembled awkwardly now.  
  
The younger man studied him, brow furrowed with confusion and mistrust. "I know   
that you tried to help me," Garibaldi continued, trying to hold a steady timbre,   
"kept trying until you just couldn't stand my shit any more." Shame stuck in   
the back of his throat. "I'm grateful for that. I know, I didn't act it at the   
time, but looking back, I am."   
  
Allan said nothing, only stood with arms folded across his chest. Now the   
nervous fidgeting was Michael's. His jaw sawed side to side as he chewed his   
lip. "I guess," he said, his voice weak and halting, "I guess I'm trying to say   
thank you. And I'm sorry. I hope, maybe someday, you'll be able to forgive   
me." He swallowed hard and gave up trying to find the words to set this right.   
What he never should have started, now he could only strive to end quickly. He   
chucked the younger man's shoulder affectionately. "See ya, Zack."  
  
Garibaldi turned his back on Zack Allan one last time, shifted his bag on his   
shoulder, and began the walk down the concourse. The din he remembered from   
this place couldn't penetrate the noises in his head: the pounding of   
embarrassment, the buzz of shame, the voices of what he should have said.   
  
"Michael, wait!" Allan's voice broke through the drone in Garibaldi's brain.   
He halted and let Zack catch up to him before he turned. The young man trotted   
up, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Michael, I'm sorry." His head cocked   
to the right, eyes squinting in discomfort. "I guess, I was shocked to see you.   
I didn't know what to expect." His large hands punctuated every sentence.   
"Really, it's good to see you again." The last sentence had the sound of an   
apology.   
  
"Thanks, Zack. It's good to be back." They fumbled at a handshake as Garibaldi   
looked around him. "A little weird, but kinda nice."  
  
"What are you doing here?" blurted Zack suddenly, blushing when he realized how   
rude it sounded.   
  
Garibaldi laughed, an honest, hearty chortle that was infectious, forcing a   
chuckle from Zack. At least the kid was starting to realize when he put his   
foot in it. "I came to see Sheridan," Michael said as the laughter faded.  
  
Allan whistled softly. "That ain't gonna be easy, Michael. He's a very busy   
man these days."   
  
"I know," Garibaldi said, resignation and determination contesting in his voice.   
He didn't offer Zack anything more, and Zack, never the most persistent of   
investigators, did not ask. A bit of small talk passed between them, news of   
Ivanova's new post, a string of "how is ... " questions and answers.   
  
"Well ... " Michael seized a lull in the conversation to glance at the chrono.   
"I'd better get a move on, if I'm going to get to see the ..."   
  
"Captain!" Zack snapped, straightening quickly, his glance over Michael's right   
shoulder.   
  
Shit! This wasn't how he had wanted it to happen. Not out in public like this,   
not before he was ready. He steeled himself and turned to face the Captain. A   
curious stare from the enormous green eyes of Elizabeth Lochley froze him in   
place.   
  
"Good Afternoon!" she greeted them. "Mr. Allan, I don't believe I know your   
friend."  
  
"Captain Lochley, this is Michael Garibaldi. Michael was ... "  
  
" ... your predecessor as Chief of Security," Lochley finished for him, eyebrow   
arched skeptically. "I recognize the name." If she knew who he was, she no   
doubt knew more than what post he had held. A stormy nod accompanied the icy   
greeting. "Mr. Garibaldi."  
  
A bottomless void sat where Garibaldi's gut had been. "Captain." He returned   
the nod with only the slightest of thaws. The silence sat more heavily than   
Garibaldi could stand. "Welcome to Babylon 5," he offered at last. "She's a   
good station, and you've got a fine crew." He glanced at Zack with this last,   
and noted that the young Security Chief shared his discomfort.  
  
"Yes," Lochley hissed, her stare unwavering, "I have people I can trust."   
  
Garibaldi winced in spite of himself, and a bright blush colored Zack Allan's   
face. "What the Captain means ... "  
  
"Mr. Garibaldi knows exactly what the Captain means, " she interrupted, her eyes   
never leaving Garibaldi's. Michael felt his own face begin to color, but there,   
too, at the back of his neck, he felt the first twitches of anger.   
  
"It's all right, Zack," Michael said softly. His tightly clenched jaw barely   
allowed him to articulate the words. "The Captain's entitled to her opinion."  
  
"I don't deal in opinion. I deal in facts." Lochley was baiting him. "And the   
facts are public knowledge."  
  
"Captain, there are things you ... " Zack Allan's defense was cut short again,   
this time by Garibaldi's hand on his chest.   
  
"Don't, Zack." Michael took his eyes from Lochley's finally to look at the   
younger man. "Your responsibility is to your CO. Don't screw with that on   
account of me." Allan's mouth opened to protest, but Michael's glance, the   
quick, backward tip of his head, the tightened jaw, silenced him.  
  
"How noble!" The sarcasm in Lochley's taunt stung Michael. He sucked air deep   
into his lungs before he looked at her again. Did she want him to lose his   
temper, to argue with her? Or was she enjoying his meekness in the face of her   
insinuations? Another long slow breath served to calm him before he spoke to   
her.  
  
"I understand you, Captain," Garibaldi began, his voice calmer than his spirit.   
"And you can speak plainly. I worked for Sheridan and I betrayed him." He   
paused, to watch her reaction and to swallow down the lump in his throat. "Zack   
would never do that to you, to any CO he worked for," he continued, shifting the   
focus off himself. "I hope you appreciate that."  
  
A shift in topic was the only evidence Lochley gave that his response had   
affected her at all. "I assume you have a purpose in being here?"  
  
The hole in his gut was back. He didn't want to talk about this, least of all   
with her. He bit his lip and nodded. "I have to see someone. I won't stay on   
your station any longer than necessary to do that." A trace of his old sarcasm   
was creeping in.   
  
"And just who is so important that you'd show your face around here again?"   
  
Michael's eyes closed as he resisted the impulse to spar with her. Before he   
could collect himself, he heard Zack's voice, uncharacteristically soft and   
controlled, deeper than he remembered it.  
  
"Mr. Garibaldi is here to see President Sheridan." He had to remember to thank   
Zack for that.   
  
Lochley's snort of laughter snapped Michael's eyes open. "God! You actually   
think he'll see you? No, I take that back. Your Sheridan's just enough of a   
Pollyanna to try to kiss and make-up." She looked to a flabbergasted, open-  
mouthed Zack Allan as she continued, stonily referring to Michael in third-  
person. "I trust you've at least checked him for weapons? I don't need him   
causing an incident."  
  
It was like the trigger snap of an old projectile pistol: a faint click that   
launched a dangerous, irretrievable slug. Garibaldi heard the little noise in   
the back of his brain just before the angry words flew.   
  
"Hold it one minute, Captain," Michael barked. Lochley gave him a sidelong   
glance, her eyebrow cocked in defiance, but he continued. "Fine, you don't like   
me, don't trust me. That's your call, and you've got ammunition for it. I   
don't argue that. But don't confuse what happened in the past with the present   
or the future. And I'll thank you to show a little more respect for your   
predecessor."  
  
"How sweet. Defending Sheridan's honor, are you? I'm sure the knowledge that   
you think so highly of him was a great comfort to him during his debriefing."  
  
"Use the right word, Captain. Interrogation. Torture. And save the denials.   
I was there. Or does your honesty fail you when it comes to your friend Clark?"  
  
"You were there, all right!" she sneered. "Maybe you should have thought about   
how rough it was going to get before you sold him out."  
  
"Wait, did I miss something here? You're talking to me about selling out? You   
were working for Clark the whole time."  
  
"I took an oath, Mr. Garibaldi. Not to Clark, or to any one person, but to   
EarthForce and its commander. My promises mean something to me. But then, you   
wouldn't understand that."  
  
If her intent had been to rip open wounds, she had succeeded. Michael felt   
anger drain from him, sucked down again into that visceral void. He hung his   
head and battled the sickening shame.   
  
"Is this necessary?" Zack Allan's words were clipped and his voice carried a   
barely controlled fury. Still, Michael was grateful for his intervention.  
  
Lochley didn't miss a beat. Turning to Allan, she issued a final order. "See   
that your people know his whereabouts at all times. Good day."  
  
The two men waited in silence for the Captain to disappear into the crowd on the   
concourse. Garibaldi looked to the left and right of Zack, too embarrassed to   
make eye contact. "Sorry you had to see that."  
  
"Aw, Michael, she's just got a stake in making people think she's tough. Don't   
take her too seriously. She doesn't understand what really happened."  
  
"She understands enough," Michael said, grimacing. "Look, Zack, I appreciate   
your standing up for me, but this is your career, buddy, and she can make you or   
break you. Don't let me get between you. Your first loyalty is to your CO."   
His jaw trembled when he heard himself, and he shook out an ironic laugh. "Take   
it from one who knows."  
  
Allan didn't laugh. Garibaldi couldn't remember ever seeing him look so   
serious. "The Captain thunders a lot, but it's not gonna come down to you or   
her. And if it did," he continued, his eyes narrowing, a crooked smile playing   
across his face, "I know where my loyalties are."  
  
Michael thought it best not to touch that, but he couldn't help smiling. He   
pursed his lips and glanced around the concourse before inquiring, "So, you want   
me to come down to the station house for a surveillance bracelet?"  
  
The left side of Allan's face curled in a smirk. "Nah!"  
  
"Zack, she gave you an order," Garibaldi protested, "and she strikes me as the   
kind who'll check."  
  
His protegé grinned. "My orders were to make sure my people know your   
whereabouts. You'll be in Sheridan's office. I'll tell them."  
  
The grateful smile that spread over Garibaldi's face was quickly chased off by a   
scowl of concern. "Thanks, Zack," Michael said slowly, forcing out the words he   
knew he had to say "but I'm not gonna be the one to get you into hot water. And   
right about now, it's probably better for me to play by the rules. Whether we   
like it or not, Captain Lochley makes those rules."  
  
"Michael, I'm not gonna ... " Zack shook his head.   
  
Garibaldi silenced him with an upraised hand. "Zack! Could we just do this   
while I'm still holding on to a little of my dignity?"  
  
Allan grumbled and scowled, but the set of Garibaldi's teeth hard against the   
lower lip, the tremble in the older man's jaw, told him not to prolong this one.   
"We don't have to go down to the station," he muttered reluctantly. "We've got   
some in the Customs House."  
  
Sighing, Zack led the way into the little office. Garibaldi followed, cringing   
when he recognized the agent on duty. "Mr. Garibaldi, it's good to see you   
again," Ramirez bubbled as he jumped from his chair. Michael forced a smile,   
acknowledging the greeting with a nod and a quick hello.   
  
"Ramirez," Zack barked, "gimme a tag."   
  
"Sure, chief," the agent answered, fumbling in his desk drawer for the bracelet.   
He handed it to Zack and turned quickly back to Garibaldi. His mouth was open   
to make the next round of small talk when Zack secured the monitoring device   
around Michael's extended right wrist. His glance darted quickly between   
Garibaldi and Allan. "What is this, some kind of joke? Chief?"  
  
"Ramirez, don't you have some paperwork to do?" the young officer snarled.   
  
Garibaldi's eyes remained on the floor until the agent had murmured "right,   
chief" and moved away. He swallowed hard as he looked back at Zack. "Thanks,   
Zack," he said weakly.  
  
"Yeah, whatever," Zack shrugged. His link chirped as if on cue, and the call   
demanded his presence elsewhere. The two men said their good-byes quickly, but   
Michael lingered to watch as Babylon 5's Chief of Security moved off down the   
concourse. He fidgeted with the tagging device that seemed to weigh so heavily   
on his arm. Finally, when Zack had faded from view, Garibaldi sighed, tucked   
the bracelet under his cuff, and resumed his quest.   
  
= = =  
  
Green Sector had been the Ambassadorial quarters, larger and more elegantly   
appointed than most of the station. Parts of it still served as residence for   
the delegates of the various worlds, but much had now been converted to the   
offices of the new Alliance, and for both reasons, security was thick here.   
Checking through was an emotional roller coaster ride for Garibaldi. Old   
friends greeted him warmly, former friends scrutinized him with eyes that   
screamed "traitor" and young recruits failed to recognize him at all. He wasn't   
sure which was most painful.  
  
After a bit of searching, Michael found Sheridan's new offices. There were   
several layers of receptionists, secretaries, and aides between this unexpected,   
unannounced visitor and President Sheridan.   
  
President Sheridan. Still sounded strange. No one in the fence of people   
protecting the President wanted to offer Michael any hope of seeing him. He was   
turned down in every way and for every reason imaginable. Only his steadfast   
refusal to accept those rebuffs held him there.   
  
"Look," he insisted to the latest aide to say no, "would you just tell him that   
Michael Garibaldi wants to talk to him? I don't care when. I'll wait as long   
as it takes. Just give him the message, please?" Exasperation was evident in   
the man's eyes, and Michael suspected he capitulated only in the hope of ridding   
himself of this annoyance.   
  
"Wait here," commanded the aide, before slipping through the far door. Twenty   
minutes later he emerged, giving the pacing Garibaldi nothing more than a scowl.   
Michael dropped into a chair and tried to compose himself. He slowed his   
breathing, ordering himself to meditate. Several minutes later his eyes flew   
open to the sound of that far door opening again. He sprang to his feet at the   
sight of Sheridan framed in the doorway.   
  
"Michael! I'm sorry you had to wait!" John exclaimed, crossing the outer office   
to where Michael stood frozen with last minute anxiety. Garibaldi accepted the   
out-thrust hand as Sheridan clapped him soundly on the shoulder.   
  
On the edge of his vision, Michael could see the aide, glaring at him, his head   
jerked back in shock, his eyes rolling in disgust. The irreverent little voice   
in Garibaldi's soul told him to squash Sheridan in an effusive bear hug, just to   
provoke the disapproving attaché, but he thought better of mischief just now.   
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. President," he said softly, watching from the   
corner of his eye for the aide's reaction.   
  
"Mr. President?!?" Sheridan let loose a laugh. "For pete's sake, Michael, you   
sound like some diplomat. I hope that's not what they've been doing to you on   
Minbar?"   
  
Garibaldi shifted his eyes to Sheridan's face, and shook his head uncomfortably.   
He could feel his jaw tighten with nervousness. "No," he stammered, "no, I'm   
sorry, John. But thank you anyway. I know you're busy."  
  
"That I am," said Sheridan, his smile diminishing only the faintest bit. "Come   
on in, Michael. I don't have a lot of time, but at least we can make a date to   
get together." He gestured toward the office door. Garibaldi swallowed   
nonexistent saliva as he willed his feet to move.   
  
Just across the threshold, he stopped to survey the place, forcing Sheridan to   
step around him to clear the door. The office was large -- so large Garibaldi   
thought his quickly muttered apology echoed a bit -- and decorated more   
elaborately than Michael expected. There were personal mementos -- an   
autographed baseball, a couple of commendations -- but many of the trappings   
around the office suggested a hand other than John's.  
  
"I know, Michael," Sheridan laughed, "it's not my usual bare-bones efficiency."   
Garibaldi wondered what had telegraphed his thoughts so well. "They tell me   
that as President I have an image to maintain." He shook his head as though   
disbelieving, but his hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. "So you're not done   
with training yet, are you? What brings you home, Michael?"  
  
Sheridan's choice of words sent a shiver through Garibaldi. He didn't feel at   
home, didn't know if he ever could again. He drew a long, trembling breath,   
broke from John's gaze, then looked back. "No, " he said, so quietly that   
Sheridan stepped closer to hear him, "I'm not done. But I came to see you."   
  
He dropped his eyes again, suddenly conscious of the sweat pouring out of his   
body and the burning emptiness of his lungs. His teeth dug into his lower lip   
as he lifted his head again. "I came to ask you to forgive me, John, to forgive   
me for betraying you."  
  
Sheridan's disbelieving eyes widened until golden eyebrows slammed down in   
annoyance. "Michael, we've been over this already." His face and voice   
softened, his eyes filled with emotion too close to pity. "It wasn't your   
fault. You couldn't help what was happening to you. "  
  
Michael jerked both hands up in front of him, beating his flattened palms   
against the air to halt Sheridan's advance. "Don't! Please, don't just let me   
off the hook here, John. This isn't about fault. It's about forgiveness.   
Forgiveness for what I did. The fact is, I did it, John. I betrayed you"  
  
"Michael, stop beating up on yourself." Sheridan squinted at him. "Things got   
rough there for a while, sure. We both know that. But I'm fine now -- thanks   
to you. It's over now. "  
  
Garibaldi's head rolled back and he flashed an agonized grimace at the ceiling.   
"John, I know what you're saying. I said it myself. 'It's not my fault. It   
was Bester. It wasn't my fault.' I wanted to believe that too, John, to make it   
that easy. Put it all on someone else. But it's not that simple. "  
  
His shoulders hunched forward as the pace of his words increased. "It's about   
what I did to you. It's about the fact that it was me who did it, not Bester."   
He watched Sheridan's eyes as he spoke. "Bester didn't invent me, John, he just   
worked with what he found."  
  
Michael Garibaldi stepped up closer to his former commander. "I did it, John.   
I did it." It was a challenge and a plea. "Can you deal with that? Can you   
admit that? Can you forgive me for that?"  
  
The words came slowly from a mouth hanging open in astonishment. "Michael, what   
are you saying? That you wanted to?" Anger began to invade his voice when   
Garibaldi failed to deny the accusation. "Are you telling me you lied to me --   
deliberately -- knowingly? Are you saying you handed me over to Clark, that you   
wanted to betray me? "  
  
"Isn't that what you believed, before you knew Bester was involved?" Michael   
challenged. "What did you think, when those guys grabbed you in the bar?   
Didn't you believe it was my fault, that I could do that?" Sheridan flinched at   
the memory, and Garibaldi backed off just a little. "Could you have forgiven   
me, before, when that was what you believed? What if Bester hadn't been   
involved? Could you have ever forgiven me?"  
  
John's arms stretched across an unseen void, reaching out to a lost friend.   
"Michael, this is crazy! It was never like that." The muscles in his face   
seemed to sag, pulled down by fatigue and sadness, aging him before Garibaldi's   
eyes.   
  
"Yes, I felt betrayed. I went to Mars because of you, because of us -- the   
trust, the friendship, everything we've been through together." The bitter   
memories stung his throat and narrowed his eyes. "I knew you'd been acting   
strange, and shit, yes, it scared me. But we were friends, Michael, and at a   
moment like that, with a message like that, I had to believe, had to trust that   
whatever else had gone down, you were still my friend."  
  
Garibaldi watched him turn and walk a few steps away. "Yeah, I checked it out."   
He turned back to watch Michael's reaction. "I don't claim I trusted you   
completely, not after the things that had happened, but right down to that   
moment in the bar, Michael, I saw you as a friend."  
  
"Checked it out?" Garibaldi demanded, his steely blue eyes narrowing. "What   
did you check, John?"  
  
Sheridan's head jerked up, and he squared his shoulders defensively. "I checked   
with my sources," he answered, folding his arms across his chest. A moment   
later, as though embarrassed by the sternness of the pose, he unfolded them   
again, extending open hands in front of him. "Your story about my dad checked   
out. Everything said you were telling the truth."  
  
A shamed sigh escaped Garibaldi as he broke the eye contact. He crossed to the   
desk and ran his fingers absently over the polished surface. Closing his eyes,   
he struggled to find the stomach for the job. "What about where I was, those   
two weeks? Did you check that? Did anyone check?"   
  
The confusion in Sheridan's face became astonishment then irritation. "What the   
... ? Michael, you're going back months! God damn it, aren't we past all that   
? You were a royal pain in the butt back then, yes, but it was all part of   
Bester's game, Michael. He wanted to drive a wedge between us. "  
  
Michael could taste the anger rising in his throat. This was wrong -- he had   
come for balm, not bile -- but he couldn't stop it. "Yeah, I'm going back   
months. I'm going back to when it all started, John. I'm talking about a   
senior officer disappearing for two weeks, and nobody investigating. I'm   
talking about someone in a position of power who's disappeared during a time of   
war, and nobody asking any questions.   
  
"Questions?!" Sheridan's voice cracked in disbelief. "You think nobody asked   
questions? Stephen went over you with a fine tooth comb! Security tore the pod   
apart and got nothing.  
  
"And you! " Sheridan snorted, his amber eyes blazing, both hands flying up in a   
gesture of disgust. "The most civil thing you said was 'I can't remember.' " He   
spun a right face and walked away until the desk was between them. "You were on   
my back about Lorien, about playing God, about every damn move I made. You   
think anybody wanted to talk to you?"  
  
Garibaldi followed Sheridan to the far side of the office, but now his step was   
hesitant, his voice that of a supplicant. "Didn't you think something was wrong   
when I couldn't remember? Was it just easier to accept it than to ask why? Why   
didn't you act when you knew something was wrong?"  
  
Sheridan's fists banged the desktop in disgust. "We just barely got you back on   
duty. We were trying to get things back to normal, hoping maybe you'd be   
yourself again, and you turn around and resign." He straightened, turning his   
back to Garibaldi. When he spun back his jaw was quivering. "When I needed a   
Chief of Security with your mind, when I needed someone I could trust the way I   
had learned to trust you, when I needed you more than I ever had, you walked out   
on me. You needed to find a little happiness. What crap!"  
  
"And when have I ever bailed on you, before, John? Didn't you wonder where that   
came from? "  
  
"Wonder?" Sheridan's eyes widened. "Yeah I wondered. I wondered what had   
happened to you, but maybe if you hadn't been so damn wrapped up in what   
happened to you, you might have noticed that something happened to me too. And   
was still happening. Damn it, Michael!" A huge sigh burst from him. "I'm the   
commander of an army and I was facing the battle of my life." Indignation   
stirred a fire in his voice. "I needed to be able to count on my officers, not   
have to nursemaid them. And don't pretend I didn't try to talk to you. Who   
decked whom on the Zocalo, Mr. Garibaldi?"  
  
"Touché." Garibaldi flinched at the memory of that fight, precursor of the   
horror to come. He grabbed hold of a chair to steady himself, knees weak now as   
shame contested with anger.   
  
"So what are you saying, Captain?" He knew the use of the now defunct title was   
a stab, and he refused to look at Sheridan's reaction. "It sounds like is you   
just want to forget it ever happened." He inhaled slowly, raising himself up to   
his full height, and with a measured exhalation, turned to face the trembling   
figure.   
  
"I can't forget, John." His voice shook as he spoke, and barely carried across   
the desk. "I need to hear you say you forgive me." The wheel of emotion had   
come full cycle bringing Garibaldi to penitence again. "Not that you dismiss it   
or hold someone else responsible. That you can forgive me for what I did.   
  
"Or that you can't," he added sadly.  
  
The high color of passion drained from Sheridan's face. With a tired squint he   
muttered, "aw, damn it, Michael. What are we doing screaming at each other?"   
He moved around the desk, closer to Garibaldi, but stopped awkwardly before his   
outstretched hand touched Michael's arm.  
  
"Michael ... " His head cocked to one side, the fair haired man studied his   
companion intently. "Michael, damn it, I was scared." Words came now in a   
rush, a confession of his own. "There was so much happening. To me. Around   
me. I was trying to be the Leader everyone needed me to be, and you ... you   
were challenging me. Publicly challenging my authority. Personally challenging   
me to find out what was going on with you. And I'm not sure which one scared me   
more. I knew you weren't right, but I couldn't, Michael, whatever hell you were   
in, I couldn't go there to find you. "  
  
Garibaldi stood open mouthed. In Sheridan's face he saw pain he had not   
expected and something far more startling: fear. "I don't know what to say,   
John," he said at last. He tried to continue, stopped, finally repeated   
himself. "Christ, I just don't know what to say." He took a step toward John   
but stopped in horror as the man backed away. He turned away, paced out a   
circle, but could not escape.  
  
"I wanted you to find out," Garibaldi said at last. "I wanted you to push me,   
John, to ask, to find out." Again he stepped toward Sheridan, and this time   
John didn't flinch. "I wanted you to stop me because I couldn't stop myself.   
And I tried, damn it, I tried. Do you know that? Do you know how hard I tried   
not to do that shit? " He squinted at the man across from him, narrowing his   
eyes, trying to see into the heart.  
  
Sheridan, for his part, was nodding. "Maybe, maybe that's really why I went to   
Mars." He sighed, closing his eyes against the memory. "Because I knew I   
should have gone after you all those other times, but I couldn't. Maybe I   
thought that this time, with my dad to think about, we could work together one   
more time, find each other again." He turned his shoulders as though he would   
walk away, but his feet did not follow.  
  
"Maybe I should be asking you to forgive me."   
  
"Forgive you?" A startled Garibaldi pressed a hand to his chest. "I'm the one   
who fucked up, John. I'm the one who set you up, I'm the one who lured you in,   
and I just sat there while they beat the crap out of you. You think I should   
forgive you?" A snort of laughter escaped him as he considered the irony of   
that request.  
  
The words came slowly, faintly. "You came into my hell to find me and bring me   
home, but I couldn't do the same for you."   
  
When Michael spoke, his tone was a bit gentler and painfully sad. "You did   
what you could, John. I have to believe that. I have to believe you did   
everything you could."   
  
"No, you don't."   
  
"What?" Michael wasn't sure he had really heard. "John?"  
  
"You don't have to believe anything, Michael," Sheridan said without looking up.   
"I told myself I did everything I could, " he said, starting to pace, "that I   
did what I had to do." He halted and looked a long time at Garibaldi. "The   
fact is, I put other things first. Maybe that was reasonable, but ... "   
Confusion mingled with disgust in the shake of his head, and his voice died   
away.  
  
"It was war, John. You had responsibilities. I know that." Garibaldi's tone   
was conciliatory, soothing.  
  
The head shake returned, partnered with a profound sigh. "I told myself I had   
other responsibilities that were more important than you were." Embarrassed by   
that confession, he squeezed his eyes closed, remembering. A pleasant memory   
drew a smile. "I'd see you sometimes, with clients, laughing, making smart   
remarks, putting families back together, and I'd think, there he is! There's   
Michael, he's all right!"   
  
His expression soured as the memory went bitter. "But every time I got near you   
we'd end up fighting. Then you picked up with Wade, and started smuggling, and   
... Michael, when you left Babylon 5, I felt like I had sent you to die."   
Michael was startled by the passion in Sheridan's words. "I'm sorry for that,   
Michael. I wish I could go back and change it."  
  
"John ..." Garibaldi tried to interrupt, but Sheridan held up a hand to silence   
him.  
  
"And yes, I hear what you're saying. Don't think I don't. I can still feel the   
horror when I realized what you were doing to me in that bar. I was hurt,   
disbelieving. The only reason I wasn't raging at you was that I was too busy   
trying to stay alive. "  
  
The last words slashed at Garibaldi, and he pressed his eyes shut tightly to   
blot out the memories. He didn't look at Sheridan, didn't look at anything,   
just stood with eyes closed, lost in the pain of that memory.  
  
"I hated you for a while, Michael."   
  
Those words snapped Garibaldi's eyes open. John Sheridan stood staring down at   
his desktop. "How could you not hate me? God knows I hated me."  
  
"I sat in that cell, and put every shred of energy I had left into hating you,"   
Sheridan said. The muscles in his face tightened, and his voice grew bitter.   
"Know what I kept remembering? " he asked with a sardonic grin.  
  
"What?" In fearful curiosity, Garibaldi whispered the question.   
  
"When I asked you to get the White Star ready for Z'ha'dum." The cynical little   
laugh again. "How protective of me you were. How loyal." He turned to stare   
at Michael, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "I just wanted to scream   
out and call back that friend. "  
  
"Why didn't you, John?" Michael begged, stepping closer to his captain. "I was   
always there. I just couldn't get out. Oh Christ, I was still there. Like   
being in jail, like I was going insane because I couldn't tell anyone, I   
couldn't get past it." His body swiveled left and right, searching for escape,   
but his feet would not carry him. He drew a breath finally and tried to calm   
himself, thinking he'd kill for a bottle of bourbon.   
  
Sheridan turned his back to man who stood shaking beside his desk. He walked to   
the computer console, let his fingers trail absently over the controls. He did   
not turn back when he spoke. "Did it hurt, Michael? Could you feel anything   
when you gave me up?"  
  
The question ripped through Garibaldi, a disemboweling blade. "Hurt?" A bitter   
laugh preceded his tears. "You wanna know what it felt like? Like cutting my   
own heart out and letting them trample on it. Only I couldn't tell you. And I   
don't know if you would have listened if I did."   
  
"I wanted you beside me. I didn't care about anything else." Sheridan curled   
his hands into fists in front of him, pressing his elbows into his sides,   
hugging himself against the awful memories. "I could have forgotten everything   
else that happened if you had just fought beside me. That's where you've always   
been, Michael, where you belong: at my side in a fight, watching my back. We   
still might have gone down, but together, the way it's supposed to be. "  
  
"I never wanted to betray you," Garibaldi cried out, his voice choked with pain.   
"Oh God, I never wanted that. But I did, John, I did betray you. It wasn't   
just Bester but me, too. When I think about that I can't go on. I can't get   
past that."  
  
"How did you do it, Michael?" Sheridan's voice was icy; his face drawn and   
hardened. "Is there a part of you that hates me, that wants to take me down?   
What's in your head that Bester could use to do that? " His eyes searched   
Garibaldi's for an answer.  
  
"I don't know how," Michael answered desperately. "I've asked myself the same   
thing, again and again. I don't know." His arms dropped helplessly to his   
sides. "I never hated you, I swear that to you, John, never. I believed in   
you, believed in what you were trying to do, what we were doing.   
  
"I believed so much that I let you go, I let you leave with the bombs on your   
ship even though I knew it probably meant I would never see you again, that I'd   
just signed your death warrant. And then I was gone, and when I came back   
everything was wrong. Everything. I wasn't me any more. Or I was me, but I   
was a me I hated, a me I didn't recognize."  
  
The two men stood in silence together, shared memories stirring shared pain.   
Too many times around the same circle, too many old arguments refought. Michael   
Garibaldi straightened, looked again at Sheridan, then at the door. Perhaps   
this had been a mistake; perhaps he should just leave before he made it even   
worse. He started for the door, halting when he saw Sheridan look up.   
  
"I told you that I hated you, Michael, and for a time, I did." Sheridan   
whispered as Michael turned to face him. "But after a while I realized that   
what I hated was the loss of you, and then the hatred crumbled."   
  
Sheridan stepped out from behind the desk and edged closer to his old friend.   
"I know -- I saw it, I felt it -- I know it was real. You took me down." He   
laid an imploring hand on Garibaldi's arm. "But I couldn't let myself believe   
that you could hate me that much. I'll accept that you did those things, but I   
had to hang on to the hope that there was some other explanation. Even when I   
couldn't imagine anything that would explain that horror."   
  
Garibaldi looked at him at last, but Sheridan's eyes were desolate. "Can we   
find it again, Michael, the faith we had in one another? The faith we had in   
ourselves? "  
  
"Faith!" A thin-lipped smile underscored the searing pain in that word.   
"What's there to believe in, John? You had faith in me. See where it got you?   
Faith is crap."  
  
Michael's bitterness jolted Sheridan, and he fired back a challenge. "Crap,   
huh? Those little shreds of faith I held onto, the ones that said that there   
had to be something horribly wrong for Michael to do this to me, the ones that   
said 'I told you so' when I looked up to see you bursting into my cell ...   
that's crap? "  
  
"Too late." The cynic in Michael Garibaldi shook off Sheridan's hand. "Too   
little, too late." With one last look, he turned to leave, but Sheridan's left   
hand snapped out to block his path. The barrier before him became an arm around   
his shoulders as John drew him back face to face. Michael spoke through tears.   
"I'm so sorry. Oh fuck, John, I'm so sorry."  
  
"I know, Michael. I really do know that," said Sheridan, struggling against   
tears of his own. "These are hard words for me to say, Michael, because I'm not   
sure I know what they mean, but I know I need to say them, for your sake, and   
for mine." He straightened, resting his hands on Garibaldi's shoulders. "I   
forgive you, Michael. The words don't change what happened, or take away the   
hurt, but without them we have no future together, and I can't stand that   
thought. Michael, please, can you believe me? Can you accept that I forgive   
you? "  
  
"I want to believe you. I want to more than I've ever wanted anything in my   
life."  
  
"Believe it, Michael. For everything ... for being a pain in the ass after   
Z'ha'dum, for resigning, for the punch, for the smuggling, for leaving, for my   
dad, for taking me down, for all of it, I forgive you, Michael. "  
  
For a few moments there were only tears: regret, relief, gratitude. "Thank   
you," Michael whispered at last, his hands on Sheridan's arMs. Sheridan's own   
tears fell quietly, but a smile flirted with his eyes.   
  
"And can you forgive me, Michael? Forgive me for my cowardice, for being afraid   
of what I'd find if I looked too deep. Forgive me for talking to you as your   
CO, instead of as your friend. Forgive me for not being straight out with my   
doubts about you when it could have saved us both from hell."  
  
"How can you ask me to forgive you?" All the anger he once felt seemed trivial   
now. "I know you did the best you could. It's the way things happened." It   
was as close to absolution as he could come.  
  
It was enough for Sheridan. A long sigh shuddered through him. "Funny, but I   
think maybe we were both being used, Michael, manipulated by outside forces.   
Bester was controlling you, and the needs of the war were driving me. We both   
wound up as pawns in a game between Clark and Bester."   
  
Garibaldi squinted at the proposal. "I hadn't thought of it that way." He   
considered a moment. "Maybe you're right."  
  
"And maybe it's time we took control back," Sheridan continued, "owned our own   
lives again, made things happen the way we want them to happen." His eyes   
questioned Garibaldi, sparkling with hope.  
  
"Sounds like a plan to me," said Michael, shivering at the real possibility of   
joy.  
  
"I'd like to reclaim our friendship, Michael, if you're willing. Get to know   
each other again, learn to trust one another again." He extended a hand to his   
old friend. "Can we begin again?"  
  
Laughter shook Michael Garibaldi, honest, spontaneous laughter, the first in far   
too long. He clasped the hand offered to him in friendship. "I've gotten lots   
of practice at it lately." With another burst of laughter, the men embraced.   
  
Tears came again, welcome tears this time, relief and joy and gratitude tumbling   
out in that hug. Both Sheridan and Garibaldi were grinning broadly when they   
broke free to wipe their eyes.   
  
"Michael, " Sheridan began again, a grateful exuberance bubbling in his voice,   
"it's so good to have you back."   
  
"Good to be back." Garibaldi smiled, squinting and letting his head drop   
forward. "Or it will be," he corrected, looking up at John. "I've got some   
business to finish back on Minbar."  
  
"It was the right decision, then, Michael?" Sheridan asked. "The Rangers?"  
  
Michael's mouth pressed into a tight smile as he reflected on that question.   
"For a while there," he admitted, "I wasn't too sure. But yeah. I have to go   
back and finish this. This is what I'm supposed to do.  
  
"I needed your forgiveness, John." Michael's voice was still choked. "Now   
maybe I can forgive myself for everything that happened, maybe I can learn to   
trust myself again." A smirk and a shrug punctuated the thought. "If I can do   
that, maybe I can make it as a Ranger."  
  
"You will, Michael," Sheridan assured him, clasping Garibaldi's hand now in both   
of his. "I know you ... What's this?" A bewildered look spread over John's   
face as his left hand closed on Michael's wrist. Two right hands contested,   
Garibaldi instinctively trying to withdraw, Sheridan holding fast, his left hand   
pushing back Michael's cuff. "Michael, what the hell ... ?"  
  
Dry-mouthed, Michael answered, his eyes avoiding John's. "It's a surveillance   
bracelet."  
  
"I know what it is," Sheridan countered, astonishment in his voice. "Why the   
hell are you wearing it?"   
  
Garibaldi finally wrested his arm from his friend's grip, shoving both hands   
deep into his pockets. "It's not important, John. I'm leaving now anyway," he   
evaded with a shake of his head.  
  
"Not important?" an incredulous Sheridan countered. "You're walking around   
this station tagged? And you're going to brush that off? Michael, how did this   
happen? Why did it happen?"  
  
Garibaldi sighed and swallowed hard. There was, he could see, no way to avoid   
this. "Captain Lochley is not pleased about having me on station, definitely   
not pleased about having me anywhere near you." He couldn't bring himself to   
look at John.   
  
Sheridan strode angrily toward the computer console. "Who the hell does she ...   
"   
  
"John, don't!" Garibaldi pleaded, anticipating what his friend was about to do.   
  
Sheridan ignored him and hit a signal on the panel. "Get me Lochley!"  
  
Michael laid a hand on Sheridan's arm. "John, don't get involved in this. She   
doesn't trust me. Why would she? The tag didn't prevent me from talking to   
you. I did what I needed to do, and now I'm going back to Minbar. It really   
doesn't matter. It sure as hell isn't worth your time. I've taken too much of   
that already."  
  
"Lochley here! You wanted to speak to me , Mr. President?" A note of irritation   
iced the voice on the com channel.   
  
"Captain! Do you want to explain to me why Michael Garibaldi is wearing a   
surveillance bracelet?"  
  
The face on screen scowled. "If I take your question literally, Mr. President,   
no, I don't. But I'll assume you were demanding rather than asking. In which   
case, I can only assume that the bracelet was attached in response the orders I   
gave my Chief of Security: to keep track of Garibaldi's whereabouts until he   
leaves the station."  
  
Sheridan's eyebrows knit down in anger. "This is outrageous! There was no need   
for this, Captain. It's a power play, pure and simple, an attempt to humiliate   
... "  
  
"Mr. President," Lochley snapped, interrupting him, "may I remind you that I am   
responsible for the welfare of this station and its inhabitants, including   
yourself? In my capacity as Commander of Babylon 5, I am well within my rights   
... "  
  
"Rights?" Sheridan broke in to her sentence, his voice crackling with fury.   
"What about Michael's rights?"  
  
Off to the side of the com unit, out of sight of Lochley, Garibaldi pressed   
himself against the wall, wishing he could disappear. "John, please ... don't   
... " His whispered plea was barely audible, lost in the battle between the   
commanders.  
  
... You're treating him like a criminal ... " John continued his tirade.  
  
"I am treating him ... " Lochley raised her voice, enough to overpower   
Sheridan, not enough to suggest any loss of control. " ... like a man who has   
a history of erratic and violent behavior, who turned against the Earth Alliance   
to which he had sworn an oath of loyalty, who was suspected of smuggling, who   
was seen by numerous witnesses assaulting you, who was in the employ of a man   
suspected of engaging in biological warfare against telepaths, who was a suspect   
in the death of his employer. A man who arranged your father's kidnapping, who   
lured you into a trap for the people he claimed to be fighting against, who   
broke into secure Earth Force facilities, assaulted personnel, and conspired   
against the Earth Alliance in acts of sabotage. The only thing that's unclear   
here, Mr. President, is why he's allowed on this station at all."  
  
Sheridan sputtered his anger, his face growing red, sweat beading on his brow.   
"You're dredging up issues that are behind us. I won't stand for this, Captain.   
I demand that you send a security agent to my office immediately to remove this   
bracelet."  
  
"I'm afraid you have no authority in this matter, Mr. President." Lochley's   
voice had an icy calm, and a trace of smile played around her eyes. "You no   
longer give orders on this station. I would be happy to send security to your   
office to collect Garibaldi and escort him off station. Once he clears customs,   
the bracelet will be removed." The smile evaporated and the voice hardened.   
"And not before. Good day, Mr. President."  
  
"Damn!" Sheridan punched the com panel with both hands.  
  
Garibaldi peeled himself off the wall and reached a hand out to Sheridan.   
"John, it's OK."   
  
He turned, shaking his head, anger, frustration, and embarrassment shaking his   
voice and his poise. "Michael, I'm sorry ... "  
  
"It's OK, John. Really." His hands went to Sheridan's shoulders. "I'm going   
anyway. I'm sorry that you had to listen to that."  
  
"I don't know about her, Michael. In many ways she's a fine commander, but   
sometimes ... "  
  
"Yeah," Garibaldi shrugged. "Whatever. John, just let go of it. It's not   
important. Look, I should go ... "  
  
"Let me walk you to your ship ... "  
  
"John, your outer office is probably overflowing with people! I've taken way too   
much of your time. I don't even know what ship I'm gonna get. Whatever's the   
first to Minbar, I guess."  
  
"Maybe I can arrange ... "  
  
"John! Go back to work." The two men studied each other, memorizing this   
moment. "Thank you, John," Garibaldi whispered, his hand extended in friendship   
once again.   
  
Sheridan clasped that hand, nodding, swallowing down the lump in his throat, and   
with a firm grip, drew Garibaldi once more close to him. Their farewells were   
said quickly with smiles and laughter, and as they shared a last hug in the   
doorway of the office, neither had a care about the horrified look on the face   
of Sheridan's aide. 


	6. In Valen's Name 6/7

In Valen's Name  
Part 6  
  
  
  
= = =  
  
Garibaldi's step was lighter as he made his way back toward the docking area.   
The weight he had been carrying around was gone now; Navain had been right. Now   
he could do it, he could finish the training. Couldn't he? Whatever problems   
you may have in the training, Navain had said, will solve themselves if you   
attend to the real work. He was right, wasn't he? And Stephen was wrong. All   
those reasons Franklin had given him for not doing this, all the reasons why   
this was a bad idea: he was wrong, wasn't he?  
  
He stopped at the intersection of two corridors. He had come here to put the   
burdens down. Doubt was just another burden. Garibaldi turned his steps toward   
Medlab 1. Might as well have a talk with Stephen right now.   
  
The office door was open when Michael arrived, and he swung himself around the   
door frame without bothering to knock. He hung there, frozen in place by the   
shock of the sight before him. This was not real, could not be real, could not   
be happening, not here, not like this.   
  
"Well, Doctor, it's about ... " The figure in black turned, tugging impatiently   
on one black leather glove. The sight of Garibaldi poised in the doorway seemed   
to shock him. Had he let himself slip, been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't   
paid attention to the background noises? Had he felt Garibaldi's approach, but   
assumed it was Franklin? Hoped it was Franklin bringing news of his lover?  
  
The surprise was immediately suppressed, except for the dilating pupils in the   
furtive black eyes, eyes that darted quickly to note where the exits were.   
Garibaldi's practiced eye caught it, but even that barely perceptible fluster   
soon disappeared.  
  
"Mr. Garibaldi! What a surprise!" Alfred Bester's eyes narrowed as he focused   
on the speechless figure before him. "Who would have thought that I'd be seeing   
you again so soon? And here on Babylon 5 of all places?"  
  
Rage flared in Michael Garibaldi as he recognized that look: Bester was scanning   
him. "I take it you've met Captain Lochley?" the telepath sneered, his eyes   
dropping to Michael's right hand.   
  
It was the left that did the damage: a limb erupting out of focused fury as   
Garibaldi launched his whole body across the room at the little man squinting   
into his brain. The bones in that fist rattled as they contacted jaw, the skin   
split and began to bleed, and every fiber of Michael Garibaldi's being screamed   
"NOT AGAIN!" The words escaped his mouth as well, but he choked on them as he   
watched the teep reel back, and realized he could not follow.  
  
"What's the matter, Mr. Garibaldi?"  
  
"Bester. You son of a --"  
  
"Now, now, Mr. Garibaldi. Is that any way to greet an old friend?"   
  
Bester had straightened and was rubbing the spot on his jaw where Michael's fist   
had made contact. Every thought in Garibaldi's mind revolved around choking the   
breath out of the animal who had fucked with his mind, but his body would not   
comply.  
  
"Struggle if it makes you feel better, Mr. Garibaldi, but you won't be able to   
move until I release you." Bester circled him slowly, until, face to face   
again, he said softly, "You didn't really think I'd just stand here and let you   
flail away, now did you? Good god, man, you could've killed me!"  
  
"Let -- me -- go." Michael's demand was made as much on himself, on the force   
of mind that paralyzed him, as on the sneering telepath who activated the force.   
  
"All in good time, Mr. Garibaldi. I have business here on Babylon 5," he   
explained, his saccharine smile fading into a ruthless scowl, "business I don't   
intend to have you, or anyone else, interfere with."  
  
"What? Like you interfered with me?" Garibaldi spat out, his jaw set hard in   
rage.   
  
"Interfered, Mr. Garibaldi? Is that how you see it?" Bester asked, eyes wide   
in feigned surprise. "I would have said 'borrowed'. My associates and I   
borrowed you for a while. Not unlike someone contracting for your services as   
an investigator."  
  
His inability to follow as the telepath moved about the room infuriated Michael   
even further. "You made me into a god damned robot," he raged, willing the   
words over his shoulder.   
  
His tormentor moved to stand in front of him. "Now you see," he scolded, "it's   
that attitude that gets in the way of our doing business by more conventional   
means."  
  
"You grabbed me and forced your way into my head," Garibaldi fired back, his   
searing gaze never leaving those dark eyes. "That's not a contract. That's   
rape."  
  
"Mr. Garibaldi!! How painfully graphic!!" Bester furrowed his brow, shook his   
head with distaste. Taking a few steps away, he turned to look back at the   
immobilized man. "What exactly do you think happened to you?" He paused a   
moment, then supplied his own answer. "We recognized your ... talents. We   
helped to develop them. Yes, it was to our advantage to do so, but who doesn't   
look out for their own advantage? "  
  
"What's this 'our'? Don't you mean 'my'?" Garibaldi's lip curled in a sneer.  
  
"I'm flattered, Mr. Garibaldi, but even I couldn't have managed it alone. My   
associates among the Shadows, and my colleagues in PsiCorps, were all interested   
in your ... talents. But look how well it turned out. We got the virus and   
the antidote. You got the lonely widow."  
  
"You bastard!" The rage in him was so immense that he trembled in spite of   
Bester's hold on him. "I swear I'm going destroy you -- you and everyone and   
everything in your life -- just like you did to me."   
  
The telepath's snide patina dropped away, revealing the coldness, the cruelty,   
the barrenness of the man, and for a moment, just a moment, Garibaldi thought he   
saw something else. Was it fear?   
  
"Your empty threats don't frighten me, Mr. Garibaldi. You're not going to do   
anything I don't let you do." He turned to look over Franklin's desk, to stare   
at the consoles beyond. "Besides, there's only one person left who means   
anything to me," he said softly. When he turned back to Garibaldi there was   
rage in his eyes. "And I swear to you, if any harm comes to her, what you've   
been through thus far will look like a picnic in the park."  
  
Garibaldi's pulse raced at the recognition of his enemy's vulnerability.   
"Thanks for telling me," he said icily. "I'll keep that in mind."   
  
The man in black snorted his next breath, then his demeanor reset to arrogance.   
"Oh please, Mr. Garibaldi. I would have thought better of you. A man like you   
-- willing to sacrifice everything for the woman he loves! I should think you'd   
be more understanding!" He moved to stand in front of Michael, infuriatingly   
close. "But then, " he hissed, "you and I know what's really in that brain of   
yours, don't we?"  
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
Bester shook his head, wrinkling his brow, and mouthing a tsk-tsk. "There's   
that anger again, Mr. Garibaldi, that rebellious nature. You really need to   
work on that."  
  
"Let me go and I'll show you anger. It's one of my 'talents.' "  
  
"Not just yet, Mr. Garibaldi, though I must say it's rather rude of Dr.   
Franklin to make us wait so long, don't you think? I'm afraid I'm going to have   
to go off and look for him. But you can wait here. By the time the Doctor   
returns, you'll probably be back to normal. Although there's very little chance   
that anyone's going to believe another 'the telepath tampered with me' story. "  
  
Michael's eyes narrowed as he came to the understanding. "That's what you   
really want, isn't it? You want to set it up so no one believes me. You want   
to drive a wedge between me and the people I care about. You want me to be as   
alone as you are."  
  
"Mr. Garibaldi! Really! Don't you think you're overreacting just a bit? We both   
know how suspicious you can be, but please, I'm just doing my job. There's no   
reason to be hurtful."  
  
"Aw!" Garibaldi's singsong taunted the telepath. "Did I hurt your feelings?   
Because I see you for what you are?"  
  
Fire danced in Alfred Bester's brown eyes as he spun on the frozen figure of   
Garibaldi. "And just what am I, Mr. Garibaldi?" he sneered. "Just what do you   
think you see?"  
  
Garibaldi's jaw tensed as he squinted into the Bester's eyes, twin tunnels,   
dark, forbidding, endless. He wanted to fire back the most scathing labels he   
could find, to rip the man apart, to leave his soul bleeding. His rage was a   
being in its own right, his hatred ready to explode through his skin. He knew   
Bester was in his head, knew the words were redundant, but he needed to say   
them, and he needed them to be the most vicious words he could find.   
  
In that moment, it felt to Michael Garibaldi as if the telepathic link with   
which Bester held him was a two-way connection, as if the teep's mind, his soul,   
was as visible to him as his was to Bester. What do you see? Grab it and use   
it as a weapon against the monster. What do you see?  
  
A solitary figure, a dark form in a dark world. The outsider, the outcast, his   
hatred of 'normals' built from a lifetime of rejection, exclusion, bitterness.   
The strange one, turning to the Corps for what he couldn't find elsewhere, but   
even within the Corps, disconnected, distrusted, and distrusting. The Corps was   
mother; The Corps was father. Alfred Bester was an abandoned child.   
  
Advancing, pushing himself forward, upward, making himself prominent, standing   
out, but standing apart. Trusting no one above him, caring for no one beneath   
him. Willing to sacrifice a squadron of his Black Omega pilots to achieve his   
own ends. And his goals focused, centered on one person: the lover on whom all   
his hopes of happiness hung. Turning his back on the family the Corps had   
provided him, searching instead for the woman forbidden to him, taken from him,   
lost to the horrors of Shadow technology.   
  
His life devoted now to the quest to find her, to rescue her, at any cost. And   
the cost, again and again, was the infuriating need for cooperation with   
Sheridan and his people, dependence on normals. He was determined to believe,   
to prove the superiority of telepaths over mundanes. Yet he could not   
accomplish his objectives without them. So he used them. He used the mundanes   
of Babylon 5 to divert the ship that carried Carolyn's cryotube. He tried to   
use them again to go back to Z'ha'dum in search of the technology that would   
free her, might have succeeded if it hadn't been for the Alexander woman. He   
used Garibaldi to uncover the plot against telepaths.   
  
He used them, used them all, but the rancor gnawed at him. Control. He was   
obsessed by the need to control, but as long as he needed them, he sacrificed   
some of that control. It enraged him, made him feel impotent, exposed, in front   
of them. Them with their loyalty, their friendship, their ideals.   
  
"Just what do you think you see?" The dare came again.  
  
Michael Garibaldi saw a bitter, stubborn, frightened, suspicious man. He   
answered softly, the venom of the previous moment neutralized by pity and fear.   
"Everything I could become, if I let you drag me down with you."  
  
Pain cracked Alfred Bester's facade of patronage, recognition shaming him into   
visible emotion. "You can go to hell, Mr. Garibaldi," he choked, and pushed   
past Michael toward the door.   
  
"Been there," Garibaldi answered softly, his words causing the figure in black   
to stutter in his stride.   
  
"What the hell ... ?" It was Sheridan. Michael could not turn to see, but he   
knew that voice.   
  
"John!" Michael called out, but even his voice refused to respond to him as the   
telepath tightened his hold.  
  
"Michael! What happened here?" Garibaldi's eyes sought for Sheridan, but he   
could make no answer. The pale man turned on the telepath. "Let him go!" The   
demand had overtones of threat.   
  
Garibaldi closed his eyes.  
  
Beater feigned indignation. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Sheridan. I am merely   
protecting myself from Mr. Garibaldi's unprovoked attack."   
  
The accused man drew a slow breath, eyes still closed.   
  
"Cut the crap, Bester," Sheridan snorted angrily. "I know you too well. Let   
him go. Or are you too much of a coward?" Both men knew what was implied in   
that taunt.  
  
Garibaldi slowly emptied his lungs.   
  
"The man has made threats against me. I don't intend to allow him to act on   
them." Bester's voice was emotionless. "You call it cowardice. I call it   
self-preservation."   
  
Michael inhaled deeply.   
  
"That was the only thing you were ever good at, wasn't it?" John sneered.  
  
Exhale.   
  
"You needn't be petty, Mr. Sheridan. Your dear friend will be back to himself   
shortly, as soon as I'm safely off the station." He fidgeted with one glove as   
he moved toward Sheridan. "And then, you can go back to your pathetic little   
lives, full of trust and joy and love."   
  
Garibaldi inhaled.   
  
Bester stood opposite Sheridan, staring icily into the hazel eyes. "Just   
remember: he's mine. Always has been. Always will be."  
  
Michael Garibaldi exhaled, the full force of his life energy concentrated in a   
focused act of will. The telepath staggered as if struck as Garibaldi spun to   
face him, the single syllable "NO" bellowing out of him. There was panic in   
Bester's face when he realized Michael had broken his hold, terror when he   
realized he could not reestablish it. He pressed back against the wall   
anticipating Michael's attack.  
  
Garibaldi sneered as he stepped up to face the man in black. "I've had   
fantasies about what I was gonna do when I caught up with you. Very detailed.   
Very painful. And probably too good for you. I should take you apart, piece by   
piece, but I'm not gonna do that. I'm gonna do something that may just be   
worse. I'm gonna press charges, Mr. Bester. I'm gonna make you stand in a   
court of law and have the world know exactly what you are and what you did."  
  
Bester tried to lay the mantle of diffidence over his fear though no one was   
fooled. "What chance do you think you'll have? It's your word against mine,   
Mr. Garibaldi. You can't prove a thing."  
  
"I can." The voice came from the doorway, the portal blocked by the bodies of   
Stephen Franklin and Lyta Alexander. "I'll testify to the results of the scan I   
performed on Mr. Garibaldi, and to what I observed here," Lyta hissed, her stare   
icy, her smile smug.   
  
"Security's on the way." Franklin's assurance cued the team's entrance. The   
agents escorted Alfred Bester to an all too familiar cell in the brig, but not   
before he turned to glare at Sheridan and Garibaldi. "This isn't over,   
gentleman. You've made a terrible mistake here today. But then, you may not   
live to regret it."  
  
"Get him the hell out of here," Franklin bellowed, then turned his attention to   
Garibaldi's physical condition.  
  
"I'm fine, Doc." Michael muttered impatiently.  
  
"You'd better be," Franklin replied. "You've got your training to finish." His   
grin was all Michael needed to see to put any remaining doubts to rest. "Good   
luck with it, Michael."  
  
They laughed over a handshake as Michael took his leave. In the hallway outside   
Medlab 1, he found Lyta and Sheridan. Thrusting forward a hand, Garibaldi   
offered the redheaded telepath his thanks.   
  
"Believe me, Michael," Alexander laughed, "this is my pleasure. That man is   
slime."  
  
Garibaldi's face became serious. "Lyta, were you helping in there?" he asked.  
  
Lyta studied him for a moment. "Does it matter?" She didn't wait for a reply.   
"Take care, Michael."  
  
= = =  
  
Left alone in the corridor outside Medlab, Garibaldi and Sheridan felt their way   
through the silence to a place of comfort and understanding.   
  
"John," Garibaldi spoke first, "what happened in there, what he said ... "  
  
"Was bullshit, Michael. We both know that." Sheridan's eyes were serious.   
  
"Don't believe him, John," Garibaldi pleaded.   
  
The President smiled. "Never have, Michael."  
  
"It could've been real, John," Michael said as a shiver ran through him. "I   
felt so guilty, so angry, so alone. That's how he held on to me, by driving me   
away from all my friends, by isolating me, and making me believe I was worthless   
and incompetent." So many memories stirred with those words. "He might have   
been able to hold on to me if it hadn't been for you, all of you, all my   
friends."  
  
"Michael, are you ever going to learn to go easy on yourself?" Sheridan chided.   
"Your constant worrying about what might happen makes you one hell of a Security   
Chief, but a major pain in the ass."  
  
Garibaldi laughed but a sting of memory cut through the joy. "Do all my COs   
think I'm a pain in the ass?" It was a not altogether rhetorical question.  
  
"I don't know," Sheridan teased, "but all your friends do."   
  
Michael laughed again, this time secure in the implied affection. "How the hell   
did you get here, anyway?" he asked as they walked toward the lift.   
  
"I came looking for you," Sheridan replied. "You were no sooner out of my   
office than I got a message from Delenn. You know we're setting up headquarters   
of the Alliance on Minbar?"  
  
"Yeah, at Tuzanor was what I heard." Inside the little cabin, Garibaldi called   
for the Customs concourse.  
  
"That's right. Turns out we need to be there to check things out in a few days,   
so I called down to Customs to see if I could catch you, ask you to stay a   
couple of days and travel back with us. When they said you weren't there, well,   
I decided to put that damn tag to good use. I had Zack locate you. When he   
said you were in Stephen's office, I figured I'd come down, and we could gang up   
on you."  
  
"Did you call Stephen and Lyta?"   
  
"Not me. Can't take credit for that," Sheridan answered, "though I'm glad they   
showed when they did."  
  
"I'll say." The two men stepped out of the lift and moved through the bustling   
concourse.   
  
"So, will you stay? It'll just be a couple of days. We'll take a White Star   
back to Minbar, probably faster than any transport you can get." Sheridan waved   
a hand toward the Departures board.   
  
"John, I appreciate the offer, but ... well, I'm anxious to get back, and ...   
I promised Lochley I wouldn't stay any longer than necessary. I've probably   
overstayed my 'welcome' as it is."  
  
The lanky figure of Zack Allan approached. "Michael, are you OK? I got a   
report ... "  
  
"I'm fine, Zack. I'm gonna press charges ... "  
  
"Notice the tense on that, Mr. Allan." The voice of Elizabeth Lochley intruded.   
"No charges have yet been filed, and until and unless they are, your agents have   
no business detaining Mr. Bester."  
  
The realization of what they were hearing left the three men speechless.   
Sheridan recovered first. "Captain, do you have any idea of the threat that man   
poses ... ?"  
  
"Mr. President, you're beginning to make me think Garibaldi's paranoia is   
contagious. Let's not get carried away." She turned her gaze to Michael. "I   
take it you're leaving?"  
  
Garibaldi sighed and nodded. "Not to worry, Captain. I'm going."  
  
"Good!" Lochley nodded toward Zack. "You can remove the surveillance bracelet   
as soon as he clears Customs."  
  
Allan made no attempt to hide his scowl. "Yes, ma'am, Captain," he replied, his   
voice frosty. Turning to Michael, he said gently, "I'll get the key."  
  
"Zack, don't bother," Garibaldi called as the Security Chief turned to the   
Customs House. He thrust his right hand up and out, drawing the bracelet clear   
of his sleeve. "May I?" he grinned at a quizzical Allan, as he lifted the stat   
bar from the Army of Light uniform.   
  
He positioned the bar's pin delicately between the index and middle fingers of   
his left hand. Grasping the locking mechanism of the bracelet carefully between   
his left thumb and ring finger, Garibaldi executed a series of three quick taps   
with the pin, and bracelet dropped free of his arm. He caught it as it fell and   
handed it with a flourish to Lochley. "Captain, " he said with a slight bow.   
The men held their laughter until the furious commander had left.  
  
"Mr. Allan," Garibaldi smiled with another bow as he handed the stat bar back to   
Zack.   
  
"How the hell did you do that?" Sheridan asked.  
  
"Aw, I could never find the damn keys when I wanted them, so I learned to pick   
those things years ago, " Michael grinned.  
  
Sheridan's face was serious. "Why did you wear it, Michael? If you could have   
popped it at any time, why did you walk around wearing it?"  
  
Garibaldi shrugged. "Because I didn't want to get the Chief here in trouble, "   
he smiled, nudging Zack, "and because ... I guess because I thought it was what   
I deserved ... then."  
  
"And now?" Sheridan asked as Zack handed Michael's bag over for inspection.   
  
"Now, " Garibaldi thought for a moment staring at the floor, then he raised his   
eyes to Sheridan's, "now we begin again."   
  
= = =  
  
Most times he could remember, seeing double had been a reason for distress.   
Tonight, however, Michael Garibaldi climbed into the hills above Tuzanor,   
overjoyed by the sight of two moons hanging over the Ranger training camp. He   
was home. What a crazy notion!  
  
He scrambled up the trail and pondered all the prayers his agnostic soul could   
never pronounce: gratitude for being back here, for having been here in the   
first place; atonement for all those he had wronged, here and elsewhere;   
petition for still one more chance. And forgiveness. For himself.  
  
Garibaldi stopped, standing erect but relaxed in the middle of the path that led   
to the camp's main gate. Everything Bester used against me, against John, was a   
part of me, is a part of me. It will always be there, there for him or someone   
like him to use again, unless ...   
  
He heard Sheridan's voice in his head. "The words don't change what happened,   
or take away the hurt, but without them we have no future together, ... " Yeah,   
Michael, the words don't take away the hurt, but you need to say them. The   
words don't change what happened, but you have no future without them. I   
forgive you. Michael, you fucked up -- big time -- because you're a human being   
trying to do the best you can with what you've got and with who you are, and   
sometimes, you blow it. And you blew it, as badly as I ever want to think   
about.  
  
So I forgive you, Michael. Not because you deserve it. Not because you've   
earned it. Just because you need it. I forgive you for everything that   
happened, all the harm you caused, intended or unintended. I forgive you.   
Let's try not to let it happen again. But I forgive you. A shiver ran through   
Michael Garibaldi as he realized he meant it.   
  
All the emotions he had expected to feel were there. Sort of. There was   
relief, and joy, and yes, some pain, but they were muted, subdued, an   
undercurrent of feeling beneath the surface of the experience. Michael   
Garibaldi stood on the hillside above Tuzanor, eyes closed, head tipped back to   
the night sky, reveling in the peace.   
  
Peace. Within as well as without. More than contentment, deeper than calm,   
pervading his soul more thoroughly than any emotion he had ever known, more even   
than the hatred. This wondrous new experience, so startling and so welcome,   
suffused every aspect of his being. He was finally at peace. And alive to know   
it.   
  
With a grateful smile Garibaldi started again toward the training camp on the   
hillside above. He slipped through the gate and paused to look again at the   
fields and buildings that had become so familiar. As his eyes scanned the   
compound, his heart monitored reactions. Shrugging against the weight of the   
bag on his shoulder, Garibaldi walked toward the darkened barracks. The fear   
was gone, the dread evaporated, the shame released.   
  
With a welcome certainty, he entered the building that housed the Ranger   
trainees. It was about honor, and courage, and an inner confidence that the   
cause was absolutely just and your actions absolutely essential. He thought of   
Sheridan as he climbed the stairs, of Sheridan and of the final campaign of the   
war against Clark. They were indeed an Army of Light, and the cause was most   
certainly just. And this, he thought as he rested his hand on the door to his   
room, this course of action you've begun, is essential, necessary and right.   
  
He had found the confidence, the certainty of purpose. Garibaldi stepped into   
the little room and tossed his pack on the floor beside the chest. Courage had   
come, too, he thought, as the work of the days just passed and those to come   
played out calmly in his mind. His hands clutched and released absently on the   
back of the desk chair as he considered what to do next. Confidence and courage   
had been found, but could he reclaim honor?   
  
= = =  
  
Michael walked noiselessly out of the room and down the hall, stopping in front   
of a door from behind which whispers of light shone. He knocked, the concussion   
echoing in the late night silence. A preoccupied voice answered, muffled as   
much by fatigue as by the intervening door. "Come."  
  
Garibaldi laid a hand gently on the door, pushing it in to the room, letting it   
swing clear, but not following it. He stood outlined in the doorway and looked   
across the room at the blond stretched out on the bed, textbook in hand. Drew's   
hooded eyes shifted from his book to the figure at the threshold, and a smile   
crept across his face.   
  
"I wondered when you'd get back." He was grinning broadly now. Bare-chested,   
blankets thrown across his lower body, voice slurred by the nearness of sleep,   
Drew smiled confidently at him. "You gonna stand in the hall all night,   
Michael?" he asked with a laugh.  
  
"I wasn't sure if I'd be welcome," Garibaldi said softly.  
  
The young man's voice trembled as he answered. "Always, Michael."  
  
Garibaldi stepped into the little room, a duplicate of his own in most respects,   
and let the door swing closed behind him. He turned to face Drew, as the blond   
dropped his legs over the side of the bed and stood. "We should talk," Michael   
croaked, suddenly nervous again.  
  
Drew erupted in a wincing laugh. "Oh, Michael, please! I'm not sure my heart   
could take it." The memories hit Garibaldi in a rush, the image of his   
companion's horror and compassion stirring tears, but the young man's smile, and   
his gentle hand on Michael's shoulder, banished them again.   
  
"Drew, I'm sorry ... " Garibaldi stammered, "you reached out to try to help me   
and I ... I turned around and ripped at you. I don't know what happened to me   
that night ... "  
  
"I do," the blond said softly. "And I'm honored, and grateful."  
  
Michael's eyes jumped to Drew's, and his brow furrowed in confusion.   
"Grateful?" His voice was shaking. "That I lit into you like that?"  
  
"Grateful that you trusted me, that you felt safe enough with me to talk so   
honestly about your pain." Drew's piercing blue eyes searched Garibaldi's face.   
"I only wish I could have done more than listen."  
  
"I said things that night ... " Michael's throat was tight, his voice raspy.   
  
"That night was that night, " Drew interrupted. "Michael, no one should carry   
something like that alone. You shared it with me. I didn't expect it to be   
pretty. What's important is what you're doing about it." The blond grabbed up   
a shirt from the back of the chair and dug his arms into the sleeves. "I assume   
your taking off all of a sudden had something to do with that?" he asked before   
he ducked his head under the fabric.   
  
"I went back to Babylon 5," Michael murmured. "To talk to John." Their eyes   
met as the young man's head emerged again. "To ask his forgiveness."  
  
Drew hinted at a smile. "And you're feeling better now?"  
  
Garibaldi nodded, grinning. "We talked, really talked. Everything, absolute   
truth."  
  
"And?" Drew's eyebrows arched, and he rolled his fingers to prod Michael along.   
  
"And ... he forgave me." Michael laughed openly, the joy of that knowledge   
sweeping over him.   
  
"And you?" Drew asked, his smile growing.  
  
"Me?" The older man looked at him quizzically.  
  
"Have you forgiven yourself?" The question was gently spoken, though pointed.  
  
Garibaldi was silent for a long moment, then began to nod. "Yeah," he smiled,   
"I think I finally have."  
  
The young man smiled broadly. "And you've come back. To finish your training?"  
  
"If they'll have me," Michael said, cocking his head to one side. After a   
moment he sobered. "Drew, I've done a lot of thinking. About honor, and   
courage. The things I said that night ... "  
  
The blond hair spilled down into his eyes as Drew shook away Michael's protests.   
"You went back to confront your Captain, Michael. That alone should put to rest   
any doubts about your courage."  
  
Garibaldi winced, remembering Sheridan, and Lochley, and Bester. "This trip   
taught me more about courage than I expected. But honor ... Drew, I feel like   
I'm starting from scratch ... "  
  
"Well, halleluia!" the young man exclaimed, spinning round to face Garibaldi   
with a clap of his hands.   
  
"Halle ... what?" A puzzled Garibaldi stared at the trainee.   
  
"Michael, if you really believe that, it's wonderful!" Drew slapped his   
shoulder. "You're starting with a clean slate. No marks against you.   
Congratulations." Despite his grin, there were questions in his eyes.   
  
A tiny smile of delight flirted with Michael's eyes, but he persisted. "Drew,   
what you think matters to me ... "   
  
"You know what I think, Michael," the young man chided him, growing serious now.   
"Hasn't changed. I meant what I said in Navain's class that day."  
  
Michael winced at the memory. "Drew, we should talk about that ... I'm no role   
model ... " He stepped toward the trainee, his hands held up before him in   
defense.  
  
The blue eyes looked at him expectantly. "Fresh start, Michael?"  
  
Garibaldi shook his head. "Fresh start or not, Drew, I'm no role model. Don't   
... you want someone to look up to ..." He waved an arm toward the compound.   
" ... Sinclair... or Marcus Cole ... or even Sheridan. Not me. I'm not ...   
"  
  
Drew grimaced, and cut off the protest with a stamp of his foot. "Aw, come on,   
Michael. I expected better from you. You gonna send me to the guys who make it   
look easy? What help is that?"  
  
Michael stared at him open-mouthed, a furrow creasing his brow. The young man   
stepped nearer, and lowered his voice as he continued. "You're naming icons --   
men who always did the right thing. I screw up. I fall down.   
  
"I'm not looking for someone to show me how to be a perfect Ranger. I'm looking   
for someone to show me how to keep going when hope is gone, to try one more time   
when everything you've tried has failed." Crossing to the entryway, pressing   
his back against the frame, he looked back to where Michael stood. "I'm looking   
for someone to stand between me and the door when my bag's packed to leave, to   
make me believe the impossible is possible."  
  
When Garibaldi had turned to face him, Drew approached him again. "Your   
credentials are impeccable, Michael. Sorry, but you're my role model."  
  
It was an improbable mixture of laughter and tears that swept over Garibaldi,   
joy and remorse, hope and apprehension, exhilaration and fatigue, all tossed   
into the emotional stew. It was delight. Drew laughed with him, and when the   
welcome backs and thanks had been exchanged, chased him off to find a few hours   
sleep. And to begin again.   
  
= = =  
  
Michael Garibaldi rose with the dawn, dressing in the half light seeping in from   
the window. Robing himself in the Ranger uniform felt like a ritual now, a   
solemn commitment to begin again. If they would have him.  
  
He made his way to the Entil'Zha's office, his third trip here, he noted. The   
Minbari loved threes; perhaps it was a good omen. The office door stood open   
when he arrived, but the room was dark and empty.   
  
It was early, maybe too early. Maybe he should come back after ...   
  
"Entil'Zha is not in Tuzanor." The voice came from behind Garibaldi, and he   
turned and bowed to the Ranger.  
  
"Thank you, Sech Navain, and good morning," Michael replied, trying to shape his   
tone to fit the feeling that tugged at him. What was it?  
  
"Good morning, Michael." Navain returned the greeting politely but without   
smiling. "Entil'Zha will return in a few days, if you wish to make an   
appointment." The offer was matter-of-fact, and made no attempt at inquiry.  
  
"I will do that, Sech Navain, if that is the proper course of action." He   
didn't want to wait until Delenn got back. He wanted to get back to training   
now, today, or know that he couldn't, and be gone from here. Yet that was not   
what he said to Navain, and as he heard his next sentence, he recognized what he   
was feeling. "I would be grateful for your counsel, Sech Navain, if I could   
impose upon you." Respect.   
  
Navain stepped into the office, calling for lights, and inviting Michael to   
follow. "How may I help you?" he asked finally.  
  
Garibaldi stood stiffly before the glass-topped desk. "I have returned to   
Tuzanor in the hope that I might be allowed to complete my training. I   
recognize that I left abruptly, without explanation or permission, and if by   
doing so I sacrificed my chance to be a Ranger, I will accept that judgment."   
He paused, but Navain made no reply, so he continued. "I had hoped that my   
request to resume training could be decided upon quickly, but if I must make my   
petition to Entil'Zha herself, I will do so. I would be grateful for your   
guidance on how I should proceed."  
  
Navain was silent for a time, but his eyes never left Garibaldi's face. Though   
the face was impassive, Michael thought he saw a smile in the Minbari's eyes.   
"Were you asked to leave?" Navain asked at last.  
  
The question caught Michael off-guard. Navain knew the circumstances of his   
leaving. "No, Sech Navain, " he answered warily. "The decision to leave was my   
own."  
  
"Then the decision to return would seem to be your own as well, Michael." The   
Ranger betrayed no emotion as he spoke.   
  
Garibaldi wasn't sure of what he was hearing. "I want very much to return, Sech   
Navain, to complete the training. That is why I came here: to ask permission."  
  
"You received the Entil'Zha's permission to train as a Ranger some time ago,   
Michael. You presented yourself here, and were accepted as a candidate. That   
permission has not been withdrawn."  
  
Michael's tone was incredulous. "I was concerned that my absence might have   
changed the masters' opinion of my worthiness. If I am still viewed as an   
acceptable candidate, I would like very much to resume my training."  
  
"I would not presume to speak for Entil'Zha, Michael, nor for my fellow   
teachers, but for myself, I wouldn't have it any other way." An honest smile   
spread across the Ranger's features, a smile Michael returned, even as he   
realized that he heard another voice.   
  
Garibaldi took a step toward the Ranger, then awkwardly backed away. What he   
needed to say was private, personal, a thank you for something that perhaps only   
Michael could understand.   
  
"Navain," Michael began, looking up to find the Minbari still smiling. He moved   
forward again, and heard himself drop his voice a bit. "Navain,this may not   
make any sense, but from the first time we met, each time you speak to me, I   
hear Sinclair. Just now, when you said "I wouldn't have it any other way" I   
heard Jeff back in the early days on the station. When you helped me with the   
meditation, when you called to me in the temple before I left, it was you, but   
it was Jeff. I apologize, I probably make no sense, but I just wanted you to   
know that I am grateful for it."   
  
The Ranger said nothing at first, only laid a hand on Michael's shoulder to draw   
him along as they walked to the door and down the corridor. "He would have   
liked to have been here, Michael, to see you do this," the Ranger reflected as   
they moved along the hallway. "He knew you have the heart of a Ranger, and he   
knew one day you would wear the uniform. It would have been a great joy to him   
to have supervised your training himself. I know how dear you are to him."   
They passed through the front doors of the administration building into the   
amber sunlight of the early morning hills.   
  
"If, when I look at you, I remember him and the wisdom he shared with me, and   
remembering, I hear his voice, and hearing, I echo him, well, then perhaps in   
some small way, he is here. That would be a gift." Navain stopped and turned   
to face Garibaldi.   
  
"Or perhaps, we both just miss him very much." The Ranger still smiled but   
Michael saw a sadness in that smile that mirrored his own heart.   
  
"I believe you have a class, Michael," Navain admonished before Michael could   
reply.  
  
Garibaldi nodded, a hesitant smirk suffusing his features. "Minbari language.   
Not my best." He laughed gently at his own embarrassment.   
  
"Perhaps," the teacher acknowledged, "but not long ago, we could not have had   
this conversation." Only at that comment did Michael realize that the entire   
exchange, from first greeting to this, had been in Adronato.   
  
"Go now, Michael," Navain prodded. Eyes laughing, he added, "Begin again."  
  
Michael Garibaldi smiled too, laid his right hand over his heart, and extended   
it to the teacher. "In Valen's name."  
  
"In Valen's name," came the echo.  
  
= = =  
  
That day was the beginning of something already familiar, the continuation of an   
experience wholly new. The rhythms and routines of the day were lulling, ever   
as before, familiar, predictable. Yet there was in him a joyous jitteriness   
through which he viewed each class, each exercise afresh. He felt in himself an   
eagerness, a desire he had forgotten. And well it was, given the sheaves of   
notes he would have to catch up on from several days of classroom sessions   
missed. His work was ahead of him, the usual work and then some. At least, he   
thought wryly, some of the bruises from the denn'bok had healed.   
  
In truth, by day's end, he was once again at home, a little uncertain but more   
able to accept that in himself. It felt gratifying to fall into step with Drew   
on their evening jog.   
  
"So, heard the rumors?" Drew asked as they took the first turn.   
  
"Rumors?" Michael's head was full of so many things. Was there room for   
gossip?  
  
"Word is that Entil'Zha Delenn will be back this week and that the President   
will be with her. They're supposed to be setting up Alliance headquarters here,   
and rumor is they'll both be doing an 'inspection' -- visiting in camp, looking   
around. Jhevnak claims we're going to be flying escort when they arrive." Drew   
threw a quick sideways glance at Garibaldi. "You got any inside information?"  
  
Michael laughed softly. "Not really. They are coming to Tuzanor, I know that.   
What they're gonna do when they get here, John didn't say."   
  
"Does it spook you at all," the blond inquired with a squint, "to realize you're   
on a first name basis with legends?"  
  
Garibaldi snorted. "What spooks me," he offered after a moment, "is that   
legends grow up so fast around good people who are simply trying to do what's   
right. They're real people, Drew, just working with what life gives them the   
best way they can. Sheridan. Delenn. Sinclair ... "  
  
"Garibaldi?" The young man's eyes sparkled as he looked at his companion.   
  
"Yeah, right!" Michael gave a cynical laugh. "That'll be the day!"   
  
They ran on a while, still grinning, enjoying the silence. Drew spoke at last.   
"Almost once around. You heading in to the books?"  
  
Garibaldi started to nod, then changed his mind. "I've gotta get to those   
books, but I'm gonna take a couple of minutes first. You go on ahead."  
  
The younger man continued at a jog into the barracks and up the stairs.   
Garibaldi slowed his pace a bit, watching his friend for a moment, then he   
trotted easily to the little temple. Pulling up in front of the doors, he   
paused a moment to quiet his breathing before slipping inside.  
  
The translucent crystal surfaces of the temple obscured none of the light of   
Minbar's moons, only shaded it with their cool, calming blues. His eyes focused   
on the statue of Valen at the front of the building, and he strode noiselessly   
across the tile floor. He took his place beside the silent figure who stood   
beneath the statue, their eyes on the face of Valen.   
  
After a few minutes the Minbari turned, rested a hand on Michael's shoulder.   
"Good night, old friend," he whispered as he left the chapel.   
  
"Good night, Navain," Garibaldi answered faintly, placing his right hand over   
his heart. He raised that hand to the image of Valen above him. "Good night,   
old friend."  
  
= = =  
  
The second day, he had thought, would bring the beginnings of a returning   
routine, the familiarity of patterns repeated. Yet as Garibaldi settled down to   
meditation on that second day, he found the sense of novelty undiminished, and   
the martial arts class that followed only added to the astonishing newness. For   
the first time, Michael found himself truly able to hold his own during denn'bok   
drills. He did go down, there was no denying that, but neither as hard nor as   
quickly as had been his habit. Offensive moves became possible, and he found   
himself marveling as he saw a few good ones land. Maybe there was hope.  
  
Routine was not to be. Even the usual schedule was disrupted by the arrival,   
the following day, of the Entil'Zha and the new President of the Alliance.   
Jhevnak had been right about the assignment. White Stars and solo fighters were   
slated to fly ceremonial escort for the arriving dignitaries, each ship manned   
by trainees. The Ranger candidates picked up their postings at breakfast that   
morning, reporting immediately afterward to their ships, for a run-through.   
Jhevnak pulled the navigator's chair on a White Star; Drew was assigned a   
fighter. Michael found himself in the command chair of the lead White Star,   
wondering if the assignment was a nod to his friendship with Sheridan and   
Delenn. He was fairly certain it was not because of his brilliant record in the   
simulators.   
  
The practice went smoothly with little for the trainees in the big chairs to   
actually command: a lot of formation flying, a little bit of showing off for   
company. They set in and returned to the morning's classes, while crews checked   
and refueled the ships. Sheridan and Delenn were expected mid-afternoon.  
  
Navain's class picked up on the topic of the day. With the formation of the new   
Alliance, all the member worlds had been invited to send candidates to the   
Rangers. They spoke of the richness of having so many peoples represented, of   
the need to understand the various cultures. Conversation turned to the   
learning of languages, and Michael joked about his attempts to read Narn. The   
question of old wounds was raised, Narn and Centauri most specifically in mind,   
but quickly Michael found himself challenged again by Jhevnak. "When the battle   
is over, must the enemy be destroyed?"  
  
Garibaldi bristled, old instincts readying for a fight. It would be easy to   
provoke, easy but wrong. "No."  
  
"No?" Jhevnak asked with exaggerated surprise. "Was it not you who said that   
if the enemy were not destroyed the battle was not over?"  
  
"Yes, it was, " Michael answered quietly, leaning forward in his chair, "but   
since we had that conversation, I've learned some things." He looked down to   
the floor, trying to frame a simple explanation of how he had changed in the   
last week. Before he could share it, Navain had dismissed the class. Garibaldi   
caught up to Jhevnak as they filed out. "We should talk more about this ... "   
he began.   
  
The Minbari nodded. "Perhaps," he said as he moved away.   
  
  
There was a hum in the dining hall as every lunch table talked about the   
President's arrival. The edginess was contagious and, Michael thought, not   
particularly constructive. After a quick meal he slipped off to the temple to   
meditate awhile, and clear his mind, a brief respite before reporting to the   
ships, and falling into formation.   
  
The White Star that carried Delenn and Sheridan jumped in right on time. The   
formal greeting was Michael's assignment. He began, as rehearsed, with the call   
to the arriving ship, requesting identification. Sheridan's voice came back,   
and Michael could hear the smile.   
  
"On behalf of the Rangers and Ranger candidates of the Tuzanor training facility   
... " Michael began the official welcome.   
  
"Unidentified ships incoming." The voice of the tactical officer on his own   
ship was echoed by that of her counterpart at the other end of the open com   
channel. Michael called for visual. The White Star's holographic viewer came   
online revealing what seemed to be empty space. Only the shimmer that caught   
Garibaldi's attention betrayed the presence of the fighters, black against the   
black of space.   
  
"Identify." Sheridan's voice still came through but the smile was gone. "Star   
Furies?" The voice was incredulous now. "Earth Force?"   
  
Garibaldi signaled his tactical officer to demand identification from the   
fighters, but the call received no acknowledgment. "Mr. President, " Michael   
addressed Sheridan formally, "under the circumstances I would suggest that we   
dispense ... "  
  
The suggestion was aborted by the first blast from the fighters, directed, as   
were the ones that followed, at White Star 2, carrying Sheridan and Delenn.   
"All Ranger fighters, engage those ships," Garibaldi barked. "White Stars, fall   
into formation around White Star 2. John, lose yourself in the White Star   
fleet, keep moving, shuffle the deck."   
  
The attacking ships formed up and began a second pass, ignoring the Ranger   
fighters racing to defend the fleet. To Garibaldi's amazement, the black furies   
did not even fire in their own defense, and several were taken out because of   
it, but trained their fire wholly on White Star 2. Though the White Stars   
rapidly scrambled their formation , no amount of maneuvering or camouflage   
confused the unidentified enemy. Not a shot was fired on any other ship. The   
hair on Michael's arms stood up. "It's like they ... "  
  
Quickly, he singled out four White Stars. "Take position surrounding White Star   
2, as close as possible without collision. Protect her at all costs. Block   
incoming fire; fire in her defense. Do NOT let those 'furies get to her." To   
the fighters he called out an attack vector.   
  
"Request correction?" came back from one of the Ranger fighters. "That pattern   
brings us head on to White Star 2."  
  
"No correction," Michael snapped. "Do it."  
  
"But ... " The argument coming back was cut short by a voice from another   
fighter.   
  
"I see where you're going. Follow me in." Drew's voice faded as the fighters   
formed up behind him.   
  
The Ranger fighters came head on at White Star 2 as the enemy, still ignoring   
them, began another pass at Sheridan's ship.   
  
"Come on, Drew, " Michael muttered under his breath. As if on cue, the lead   
fighter burst forward, the others following hard on, barreling at full speed   
into the path of the attackers, weaving around the protecting White Stars,   
disrupting the enemy's attack pattern and causing them to veer off and pull up.   
  
Garibaldi wasted no time, seizing the moment of the enemy's confusion to attack.   
The Ranger fighters wheeled quickly and joined him. The mystery ships fell   
quickly before this concentrated response. A few tried to flee, but the   
fighters and Garibaldi's White Star pursued.  
  
"Get me the tightest visual you can on that bastard, " Michael called to   
tactical as they closed on the remaining 'fury. "I want to know who he is."   
The image enlarged before him, still eerily black on black, organic in   
appearance, with a faint shimmering outline on the underside. Michael's jaw   
tightened in recognition and rage. "Fire." 


	7. In Valen's Name 7/7

In Valen's Name  
Part 7  
  
  
  
= = =  
  
Confirmation that Sheridan and Delenn were safely in the Tuzanor camp came   
through before Michael had brought the White Star to its mooring. Relief moved   
through him like a drug. His body felt heavy in the command chair, his legs   
unwilling to hold him when he tried to leave.   
  
Back on the ground, Drew was waiting for him. "Michael!" Other voices swirled   
around him, words of congratulation and concern echoed, hands patted his back.   
  
"I was glad you were there, buddy," Michael said softly and simply when he   
reached the young blond.   
  
Drew nodded and laid an arm around Michael's shoulders. "Makes me feel good to   
know I'm starting to think like you." Both men smiled sheepishly.   
  
"Michael." This voice was Navain's. Garibaldi was surprised to find him here   
among the hubbub of shaken, bewildered, relieved trainees. "You are wanted in   
the Entil'Zha's office." The voice was as emotionless as the face.   
  
Michael swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you, Sech Navain, " he said with a   
bow. "I'm on my way."  
  
Garibaldi left at a trot without another word. Drew had to push a bit to catch   
up.   
  
"What are you doing?" Michael challenged with a scowl. "It's me they want."  
  
"Just along for the walk," Drew shrugged. "You could walk, you know," he   
chided. Michael slowed his pace only slightly. "What's this about, Michael?"  
  
Garibaldi shook his head. "Aw, I was way out of line up there. I had no   
business barking orders."   
  
"You did what needed doing, Michael. For god's sake, we were under attack ...   
"  
  
"Chain of command, kid. Sheridan was the ranking officer." They stopped in   
front of the administration building, and Garibaldi straightened his uniform.   
"Thanks for the company. I can take it from here."   
  
Drew's frown spoke his disapproval, but he made no argument. Michael left him   
in the courtyard and made his way briskly to the Entil'Zha's office. The door   
was open and Delenn welcomed him inside before he could offer any greeting.  
  
"Michael!" Sheridan strode toward him, brow furrowed, voice sharp. "What the   
hell just happened up there?"  
  
Garibaldi froze in place, right hand on his heart. He attempted a bow, but   
aborted it to avoid knocking heads with Sheridan. "Mr. President," he began.   
  
"Who were they, Michael? Could you get an ID?" Sheridan stretched an arm   
around Michael's back and drew him over to the desk where Delenn waited.   
  
Immediately Garibaldi was reporting. "They show up as Star Furies, but they're   
unmarked, and that organic black surface looks suspiciously like Shadow   
technology."   
  
"Are you suggesting they're EarthForce?" Sheridan demanded.  
  
"I don't think so." Michael shook his head rapidly. His eyes narrowed as he   
remembered. "I think that black skin was laid on over an EarthForce design Star   
Fury, but I don't think those babies were EA. When we went in close on the last   
one, I got a glimpse -- I thought I saw markings shining through the skin."  
  
He looked at Delenn, her eyes wide with anticipation and fear, then at the rage   
and determination in Sheridan's steely eyes. "I think they were Black Omega."  
  
"Black Omega?" Delenn's brows knit in confusion as she made the inquiry.   
  
"An elite squadron attached to PsiCorps," John explained. "Answerable directly   
to the EarthGov President."  
  
"And now, maybe not even to her, " Garibaldi pointed out. He turned to face   
Sheridan. "John, I think they've gone rogue -- not that they were much better   
than that before."   
  
The other man nodded. "You may be right. If they were Black Omega that would   
explain how they seemed to know where we were and what we were going to do.   
Telepathic fighter pilots." He shook his head. "Helluva weapon."  
  
"But why?" Delenn interjected. "Why did they attack us?"  
  
The two men looked at her for a moment, then Sheridan glanced to his left at   
Michael. The President's jaw was set, his eyes hard. "You thinking what I'm   
thinking, Michael?"  
  
Garibaldi met the glance, then his eyes dropped to the floor, as he sighed,   
"Bester." He shook his head. "This one's never gonna be over, is it?"  
  
"Bester?" Delenn asked. "John?" She looked to her husband for clarification.   
  
"That confrontation we had with him the other day, in Stephen's office?" John   
laid his hands gently on her arms as he spoke. Delenn nodded to urge him on,   
but he looked to Michael before he spoke again. "He threatened us," he   
whispered to Delenn.   
  
Fear and fury mingled in her face. "Then you think he ordered this attack?"   
she asked Michael. When he nodded she went on. "But how did they know where to   
find us?"  
  
The men were silent for a moment. "John?" Garibaldi studied the man, but his   
mind saw a memory. "You said you came to Stephen's office to find me, to tell   
me you were coming here. Is it possible Bester scanned you?"  
  
"And that's how they knew where and when to attack." Sheridan completed the   
thought. "It makes sense. With all that was happening, he could have, I   
suppose. Susan always said strong emotion made it easier."  
  
Strong emotion was obvious when Sheridan looked at his wife. He draped a long   
arm around the tiny Minbari. "But it's over now," he said soothingly. "They   
made an attempt on us, and were routed. Hopefully, Mr. Bester will learn   
something from this."  
  
Garibaldi straightened as the subject returned to the battle. Clearing his   
throat drew Sheridan and Delenn's attention to him. "Mr. President, Entil'Zha,"   
he said with a small bow, "I apologize for my behavior up there. I had no right   
to give orders like that. I recognize that it was a serious violation of the   
chain of command."  
  
Sheridan looked down at Delenn, his brows arched in question. "Chain of   
command. Yes. That is something to consider."  
  
Delenn's eyes widened and she nodded. "Discipline is essential." The corners   
of her mouth twitched. "Such actions should not go unremarked," she agreed.  
  
Through a long silence, both Sheridan and Delenn looked thoughtful. "We could   
have him court martialled," Sheridan suggested abruptly.  
  
Delenn looked concerned. "Valen made no provision for such action when he   
established the Rangers," she explained.  
  
"Oh," Sheridan said flatly, stepping away from his bride. "Well, then, reduced   
in rank?" he asked after a moment, looking back over his shoulder.  
  
Delenn shook her head. "We do not have ranks."  
  
"Really?" Sheridan asked in surprise. The Minbari nodded as her husband turned   
to her. "Is that true?" Sheridan addressed the question to Garibaldi.  
  
"Yes, sir, " Michael answered, staring at the wall over Delenn's head, and   
suppressing a smile. "There is the designation of Anla'shok Na -- Ranger One --   
but otherwise no rank."  
  
"Who assumes leadership?" the President pressed him, stepping up to the desk.  
  
"Leadership shifts according to situations, talent, experience," Garibaldi   
explained, eyes straight ahead.   
  
"Hmmm. Interesting, "Sheridan mused. He turned back to Delenn. "We have to do   
something."   
  
Entil'Zha nodded, a look of puzzled intensity on her face.   
  
"Drum him out of the Rangers?" Sheridan asked.  
  
Delenn began to nod, then stopped abruptly. "Technically, he is not yet a   
Ranger," she pointed out, head tipped to the left, brows knit in confusion.  
  
Sheridan pursed his lips in mock serious contemplation.   
  
"Perhaps a stern talking to ... " Delenn suggested, her face lighting up.  
  
Sheridan looked up with interest and pleasure. "About respect ... " he agreed   
with a nod.  
  
"And what it means to be a Ranger," Delenn continued, stepping closer to him.  
  
The President interrupted. "You should handle that one."  
  
"Yes, of course," Ranger One agreed, nodding vigorously. "And some serious   
words about the consequences."  
  
"Yes, if something like this were ever to happen again," John concurred. After   
a moment of thought , he asked, "Shall I start?"  
  
"Yes, fine." she answered.  
  
Michael sensed he was being ribbed, but he bit his cheek and said nothing.   
Sheridan and Delenn came around the desk and took position directly in front of   
him. Sheridan spoke first.   
  
"I understand that respect is one of the principles Rangers hold sacred." His   
stare challenged Michael's resolve. "Your behavior today sure as hell earned my   
respect, Michael, and I'm willing to bet, the respect of every trainee up   
there." Grinning broadly now, he continued. "You clearly demonstrated your   
leadership ability, your talent for strategic thinking, and the benefits of   
experience in battle."  
  
As Sheridan paused, Delenn began. "Every Ranger swears an oath, a solemn vow   
which guides all action." She had to look up at him, and Garibaldi dared not   
peek at the tiny figure with the solemn voice. " 'We live for the One. We die   
for the One.' Your actions today made clear that those words are inscribed upon   
your soul. You were willing to risk your own life to protect us, and you   
expected the same from every one who aspires to the title of Anla'shok."  
  
"And if anything like this ever happens again, Michael," Sheridan admonished   
him, stepping even a little closer, "I will personally kiss you right on the   
lips."  
  
Garibaldi's resolve buckled. Laughter exploded through the carefully set face   
of humility, laughter that Sheridan and Delenn quickly joined. Handshakes and   
hugs and whispered words of gratitude and affection stayed with Michael's heart   
as he went back to his training.   
  
= = =  
  
Evening and morning were filled with the buzz of nervous talk about The Visit   
and The Attack. Michael could hear the capital letters in his colleagues'   
voices. Cooler heads spoke soothingly. It had been dealt with. Move on.   
  
Routine finally helped to quiet the mood. Back in the normal daily schedule,   
the Ranger candidates settled into the last few days of their training. Lunch   
table talk wavered between the anticipation of the final ritual and the   
curiosity about the President's role. Would he conduct an inspection? Would he   
take part in the commissioning ceremony? Michael wondered with some amusement   
how comfortable John would be with all this ceremony.   
  
Jhevnak was always the authority on the rituals; he would know if there were a   
role for Sheridan. Michael scanned the room for the Minbari, but he was nowhere   
in evidence. Garibaldi made a note to ask him later.   
  
There had been no sign of the visiting dignitaries by the time they settled down   
to meditation, and Michael had begun to think the John had begged off. He'd   
never liked that kind of thing anyway, and if he could plead that he was shaken   
up from yesterday ...   
  
Michael's mind turned back to the attack as he eased into his rhythmic   
breathing. Though he tried to let go of the disquieting thoughts, they returned   
again and again. He relinquished the attempt to control, relaxed, and let his   
mind take him where it would. Images came and went, dreamlike. The black Star   
Furies. Telepaths. Mars. Sheridan. Bester.   
  
'This one's never gonna be over, is it?' His despair echoed. Alfred Bester's   
face stayed before him, but he wasn't afraid now. He knew who and what he was.   
He wasn't afraid of himself anymore. There was nothing Bester could use against   
him.  
  
Even the rage had dissipated. The face in his mind, its dark eyes and twisted   
smile, no longer stirred blood lust in him. Why? In his mind he heard the   
voice, the sick, evil voice. A part of his gut twisted but he felt only ...   
what?  
  
Michael Garibaldi centered himself, reaching down to quiet his soul, to focus on   
the nameless something. The image of Alfred Bester played in his mind again,   
and he named the feeling: pity. Somehow here in the quiet of his heart, even   
against the backdrop of all the horrors Bester had perpetrated, Michael   
Garibaldi saw him as a pathetic little man, locked in a prison of hatred and   
unhappiness.   
  
And so what? a voice in Michael's mind challenged. Why does that matter? What   
do you do about it? Michael released the questions and focused on his   
breathing. He let his mind soar and dive with the images that danced there:   
scenes of a life, his life, joys, sorrows, friends, missions.   
  
His mind came home to his heart like a bird to roost. Bester would not change.   
And this wouldn't be over. Not for a while, anyway. Maybe once he pressed   
charges. Maybe not even then. But he had changed. And he was free. His life   
was rich with people who loved him, and he had work to do that mattered.   
Gratitude filled him, a little corner held out to feel just a bit of sympathy   
for a one time enemy who would never know this kind of joy.   
  
Garibaldi exhaled slowly, and opened his eyes. Rising, he moved on.   
  
  
The martial arts class was well underway when the party of dignitaries arrived.   
Sheridan and Delenn, with Navain and Ardret behind them, entered without   
fanfare. They moved around the edges of the room, observing, stopping from time   
to time to watch an exercise. No one gave any indication that they noticed the   
couple's presence, save for the breathless, electric edginess that rippled   
through the room.   
  
When the group of visitors had reached the platform where Sech Durhan stood,   
greetings were exchanged. The teacher signaled an end to the drills in progress   
and the denn'bok appeared. One of Durhan's assistants produced two more of the   
metal cylinders, offering them to Delenn and Sheridan. Michael smiled at the   
awkwardness in John's face, and though he couldn't hear the words he could   
imagine the exchange: John struggling to find a way to decline without offending   
anyone.   
  
Eventually, both the Entil'Zha and the President accepted the weapons, and the   
trainees shamelessly watched and waited. Sheridan jumped as Delenn snapped the   
weapon open. Amidst the ensuing giggles the Minbari demonstrated for her   
husband the subtle movement that extended and retracted the pike. It did not   
come naturally for the President. When finally Sheridan succeeded in mimicking   
the move, the snap of his weapon startled them all.   
  
Durhan set the trainees to work finally, and the group began the form practice.   
Sheridan watched with interest, and Michael guessed he was trying to gauge how   
like their EarthForce training in staff fighting this art form was. Durhan   
approached the guests and said something, gesturing toward the training floor.   
Michael saw the worried look on John's face again. After some resistance,   
Sheridan could be seen to laugh, and nod, and offer something that seemed like a   
scolding look to the amused Delenn. She held his pike as he removed his coat .  
  
Durhan halted the form practice and motioned for the trainees to gather around.   
He wasn't really going to do this, was he? Michael snapped his pike closed and   
maneuvered through the group for a better vantage point. His sparkling eyes met   
Sheridan's frantic ones. Garibaldi shook his head and grinned.   
  
Durhan himself instructed the President, taking him through several   
combinations. The circle of onlookers were encouraging and forgiving. Perhaps   
that was what made Sheridan do it. Michael winced as he heard John agree to   
take an opponent. Sheridan looked to his friend, seeking a bit of inspiration.   
Garibaldi cocked an eyebrow, dipped his head a bit, and slowly shook it left and   
right. A guffaw escaped the President, part delight, part anxiety.   
  
An opponent was called forth to do battle with the President, and Jhevnak   
stepped up without a trace of reticence. He bowed stiffly, without greeting,   
and assumed a fighting pose. Durhan moved aside, and Sheridan tested the heft   
of the pike in his hands, then he too took his stance.   
  
Jhevnak struck first, his weapon crashing down toward the older man's left   
shoulder, but Sheridan managed to block. The effort cost him his balance and he   
stumbled sideways. Old training rose to the fore as he spun round into a solid   
footing again. They traded blows, the encircling onlookers cheering every solid   
hit on either side. Michael watched Sheridan's eyes. He knew firsthand the   
pain of those blows, and knew too that John would never admit it.   
  
Jhevnak struck out at Sheridan, leaving John an opening to thrust the pike under   
his opponent's weapon, a blow to ribcage that knocked the air from Jhevnak's   
lungs with a grunt. The Minbari staggered back a step or two, and Michael saw   
concern sweep over John's face. He shifted the pike to one side of him as he   
stepped forward to inquire about the trainee's well being.   
  
The question was lost in the blinding shot of pain as Jhevnak's pike caught him   
hard on the unprotected right side. Sheridan staggered now, right elbow close   
in to his rib cage. Figures stepped forward: Durhan, Delenn, Michael. Sheridan   
waved them all back, flashing a weak smile at Delenn. He had something to say   
about not babying himself before he nodded to Jhevnak to begin again, but   
Michael met Delenn's frightened gaze, remembering John's injuries on Mars.   
  
The group gathered round was quieter now but the combatants took nothing away   
from their efforts. The metallic clang of the weapons meeting echoed in the   
training hall, punctuated by Sheridan's grunt each time the Minbari landed a   
blow. Those vocalizations became more frequent as the President grew weaker.   
He backed away from his opponent, defending still, but unable to strike an   
aggressive blow. It was time to stop this. Michael looked to Durhan, whose   
widened eyes and upraised hand reflected the same concern.   
  
Durhan called out in Adronato, but neither of the men took notice. Jhevnak's   
next thrust sent Sheridan's pike flying upward, only a desperate lurch by the   
older man keeping it within his grasp. The Minbari never paused, but swung his   
weapon round on the backs of John's legs, tumbling him. The Earther tried to   
tuck and roll, but the effort was not wholly successful. He came up kneeling,   
disoriented, hanging on to his weapon with one hand.   
  
Michael heard Durhan's voice again, frantic this time, and joined by others. He   
saw Jhevnak raise the denn'bok, and in that instant, Garibaldi saw the intended   
path and purpose of the move. He heard a single English syllable echo somewhere   
far off; "NO!" reverberated as if through a temporal rift. His own pike, long   
clutched in a sweating palm, snapped open as Garibaldi launched himself out of   
the crowd and injected his body between the fallen man and the pike bent on   
severing his neck.   
  
It struck instead on the flashing metal of Garibaldi's staff, that weapon   
thrusting back against the blow, setting the Minbari off his balance. Michael   
saw fury in the eyes of the trainee he had counted friend as Jhevnak steadied   
himself and charged again. Standing his ground, Michael watched as though in   
slow motion. When the Minbari was hard upon him, he sidestepped, bringing the   
tail of the pike up into Jhevnak's midsection, driving up and forward to lift   
the trainee's feet off the floor and tumble him. Jhevnak's pike clattered   
across the floor as he landed hard on his back, the resulting breathlessness   
sapping his consciousness.   
  
Several trainees moved to restrain the Minbari as Michael turned to look into   
the ashen face of Sech Durhan. The teacher said nothing, and Navain, with a nod   
to Michael, guided him out of the area. Assistant teachers dispersed the   
trainees, as Delenn dropped to her knees at John's side. Michael snapped the   
denn'bok closed and moved toward the pair. Delenn believed not one word of   
John's assurances that he was all right, and from the look of the man, Michael   
thought that showed the Entil'Zha's wisdom.   
  
Garibaldi stood over his fallen comrade, and silently extended a hand.   
Sheridan's eyes followed hand to arm to shoulder, to solemn face with stormy   
blue eyes. Wordlessly, Sheridan clasped the offered hand, and together the two   
men raised him up.   
  
"Let's not make a habit of this, OK?" Sheridan whispered before he released   
Michael from his grip. Garibaldi smiled, and nodded, at John, and at the young   
Ranger candidate hovering nearby.   
  
= = =  
  
It violated every instinct in his soul. Garibaldi had tried, sincerely tried,   
to go about the normal business of the evening. Jhevnak had been detained in   
the administrative offices, he was certain of that, and he suspected, assumed,   
that the trainee had been questioned: by the master teachers, by the Entil'Zha,   
probably by Sheridan. It was under control. It wasn't his job.   
  
It made him crazy. He was a security agent. It wasn't the job, the title; it   
was who he was. And the idea that an investigation was being conducted without   
him drove him nuts. If he were honest with himself, it went beyond that. He   
thought of Jhevnak as a friend. He needed to understand what had happened.  
  
He excused himself from dinner, the Adronato for his apologies forming   
thoughtlessly. The silent glance he exchanged with Drew before leaving the hall   
was enough to put that night's jog on hold. Drew nodded his understanding.   
Michael made his way quickly to the administration building, once more to   
Entil'Zha's office. He did not know where Jhevnak was, but he was certain he'd   
need permission to talk to him. Might as well go to the top.   
  
Through the open door, behind the glass desk, he found only Navain. Delenn and   
Sheridan had gone to the residence, the Ranger explained, to rest, and to eat   
something. Michael put his request to Navain.   
  
"May I see him?"   
  
The Minbari was silent, his eyes searching the office for a place to light.   
  
"Please," Michael pressed, "I'm not looking for a fight. I just want to talk to   
him."  
  
Navain moved his eyes slowly to Michael's. "No," he breathed, "you don't."  
  
Garibaldi's eyes widened as he stepped closer to the teacher. There was in   
Navain's face more emotion than Michael could ever remember. "What are you   
saying?"  
  
The Ranger turned his back on Garibaldi and walked a few steps away. He paused   
there and when he turned back Michael detected a greater composure but no less   
distress. "I understand that you want to investigate, Michael. It is your way.   
You will not like what you hear." Navain brushed past Michael on his way to the   
door. "Come," he prompted, resignation in his voice.   
  
Navain led the way down the corridor, around a corner, to a door where two   
Rangers stood guard. On Navain's authority the door was unlocked, and Michael   
was admitted to the small office where Jhevnak sat. "Not long," Navain   
whispered as he withdrew.   
  
The young Minbari sat stiffly in the slender high-backed chair, his impassive   
face reflecting in the black lacquer table top. Michael looked long, hard, and   
deep, searching that face for something he couldn't name, something his   
investigator's eye would know when he saw it, something that would make sense of   
what happened today. Jhevnak gave no acknowledgment of his presence, even when   
Garibaldi crossed to the table and sat in the chair directly opposite the   
trainee.   
  
"Why?" The question snapped out with a harder edge than Michael had intended.   
  
Only then did Jhevnak look at him. After a moment the face before him was the   
young trainee whose departure he had averted that first night. "Why what?"   
Innocence dripped like honey from that voice, but Michael couldn't lose the   
bitter taste of the venom he had seen flashing in those eyes the moment before.  
  
Garibaldi tried to maintain an investigator's dispassionate tone. "You were   
ready to strike a blow you knew would be lethal. Why?"  
  
In the long pause, Michael could see the Minbari appraising him. " I became a   
Ranger to defend my people against those who would destroy them." Garibaldi   
strained to hear the coldly uttered words. "Starkiller destroyed my people. He   
cannot be allowed to gain control."  
  
Michael fell back in his chair, open-mouthed. He stared at the figure across   
from him, the resolute face that looked through him. "You're serious," he   
muttered, as disbelief ebbed. There was no reply.   
  
Garibaldi swung himself out of the chair and began to pace. He stopped to look   
again at the young Minbari. He shook his head and sat down again. Leaning   
across the table, he spoke the trainee's name.  
  
"Jhevnak ... " Steel grey eyes stared over Michael's left shoulder. "Jhevnak,   
do you know what you're saying?" No reaction.   
  
Garibaldi slapped a palm on the table, and the stony figure jumped   
involuntarily. "You look at him and say 'Starkiller' and the man in front of   
you is easy to hate." Michael was on his feet again, towering over his   
companion. "But we all wear a lot of labels. I look at him and say 'friend.'   
Delenn looks and says 'beloved.' " He bent down to the Minbari's eye level,   
palms on the table. "Is it still simple to hate him?"   
  
No response was offered to his question. Garibaldi began to pace again. " You   
talk about 'your people.' Don't you get it yet? Don't you see it's 'our   
people?' We're all in this together. We have to be. We aren't enemies, not any   
more." Garibaldi searched the stoic face, horror and confusion contesting   
within him. "The war is over," he said softly. "Put it behind us."  
  
Jhevnak lifted his eyes to Garibaldi's face. "If the enemy is not destroyed the   
battle is not over." His voice was icy.   
  
Michael's body dropped into the chair with a thud. "I was wrong," he said, each   
word slowly and separately enunciated. "It was hard for me to learn, but I   
found out it is possible to forgive, and to accept forgiveness." His brows   
pressed down so low they hurt, but he could not find reaction in the face across   
from him. Michael pushed the heels of his hands across his forehead. "I found   
out," he continued softly, his hands still shading his eyes, "that where you see   
an enemy, if you look close enough, you can find a flawed, suffering, struggling   
being." Garibaldi spread his palms on the table and looked again at Jhevnak.   
"Not unlike yourself."  
  
The Minbari's eyes scoured him, searching beyond his eyes, hope fading into   
disappointment. "I had thought you might be different, that knowing Entil'Zha   
Sinclair would give you the vision to see the Starkiller for what he is."  
  
"Whoa!" Michael snarled. "Time out! Sinclair, Sheridan, and Delenn worked   
together to make Valen's vision real -- his vision of peace."  
  
"There is no peace."  
  
The words, his own words, razored into Garibaldi's gut, far too close to a far   
too fresh wound. He forced a breath to the bottom of his lungs and let it leave   
him slowly. Behind closed eyes, he remembered, but his jaw still trembled when   
he opened his eyes and spoke.  
  
"The night we met you were ready to leave here." Michael opened his eyes. "You   
said you weren't prepared for what was required." Garibaldi leaned forward,   
trying to force eye contact. "But you chose to stay, to fight against the   
darkness." With a sigh, the older man rose again, stood behind his chair and   
continued.   
  
"Sometimes the greatest darkness is within us. There is peace, real peace, but   
each of us has to make room for it inside himself, has to drive out the darkness   
and the hatred, and make a place for the light and the peace. That's the choice   
we have to make every moment, every day."  
  
The swift shush of the door drew Michael's eye; the sight of Navain at the   
threshold told him it was time to leave. He looked again at the friend who   
would not look at him, then crossed wordlessly to the entry. In the doorway he   
stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. "Jhevnak?"  
  
The silent figure shifted just a tremor in his chair, but Michael knew he was   
listening.   
  
"Choose the light."  
  
_________  
  
The twin moons of Minbar had shone over the compound when Michael and Drew took   
their last circuit together. Now Garibaldi stood alone in the lemony light of   
the sun that rose on his last day in Tuzanor.   
  
The final days of training had passed quickly, a haze of business as usual and   
immersion in new ritual. The Ranger candidates were not told what action was   
taken against Jhevnak; they knew only that no place was held for him in their   
rehearsals for the commissioning ceremony.   
  
And now rehearsal yielded to reality. Garibaldi had not slept, and his attempts   
at meditation had only added new images to his already racing mind. He   
surrendered, dressed, and walked out to the courtyard where the ceremony would   
soon take place. He strolled in the sun's soothing warmth, passing in and out   
of the shadows of the platform where shortly Entil'Zha would accept their oath.   
  
Do not speak the words, Navain had said that first day, unless you speak from   
your soul. For three months now his soul had moved in and out of light and   
shadow, and today, in just a few minutes, he would be called upon to speak that   
oath. Was he prepared?  
  
Other figures appeared in the courtyard, men and women, human and Minbari, all   
dressed in a common uniform, all sharing that kindred sleeplessness. As the sun   
cleared the horizon they returned to classroom building, and took their places.   
They marched silently out into the compound again, moving as a body, taking   
their places before the platform, candidates in front, Rangers to the rear. The   
master teachers assembled next on the platform, to the candidates' right:   
Ardret, Durhan, and the others. Michael was startled by Navain's absence. Why   
was he not here?  
  
Finally, Delenn appeared, and with her, Sheridan. The Alliance President took   
his place at the rear of the platform, with no role to play save that of   
interested onlooker. Delenn moved to the podium and began to address them,   
words about delight, and respect, and compassion. Words about the Light and the   
battle to preserve it. Words about the new Alliance and a shared future. Words   
about honor and courage and certainty. Michael heard them with half a mind.  
  
Within him, the ceaseless self-examination raged. Could he truly take that   
oath? I am a Ranger. Could he pin that label on himself? Did he believe it   
all, all the philosophy, all the mysticism, all the tradition that was The   
Rangers? We live for The One. We die for The One. Did he even understand   
that, before he could say he meant it? Did he deserve to speak those words?   
Had he done the work, as Navain put it? And it didn't end here. If he became a   
Ranger, he would be a Ranger forever. This was a commitment to a life, and a   
helluva lousy time to think about changing your mind.   
  
And then they are called upon to speak the oath. Many voices as one voice,   
candidates and Rangers alike, they pronounced the solemn words. Michael   
Garibaldi heard his voice within that voice.  
  
"I am a Ranger."  
  
The oath begins with this. Not ends, begins. I am a Ranger. It is who I am,   
what I am, and have always been. I came to this because, in my soul, I am a   
Ranger. That was what Jeff knew.   
  
"We walk in the dark places no others will enter."  
  
The dark places of drunkenness. The dark places of fear and pain and rage. The   
dark places created by the Shadows, and the PsiCorps, by Clark, and Edgars, and   
Bester. The dark places of betrayal, the ones he had known both as betrayer and   
betrayed.   
  
"We stand on the bridge and no one may pass."  
  
Michael's eyes fell on Sheridan, there at the back of the platform, and memory   
stabbed. I failed you, John. I failed you, betrayed you, when I should have   
been protecting you. I am so sorry for that, John, and so grateful for your   
forgiveness. I swear to you, today, as solemnly as I swear this oath: I will   
never fail you again. I will guard your life with even greater care than I   
guard my own. You have my word.  
  
"We live for The One."  
  
These are the words that must come from your soul. But who is The One?   
Entil'Zha? Delenn now. Sinclair before. Valen once upon a time. And where   
does President Sheridan fit in? They said the little Zathras guy, the one that   
went with Jeff, that he had called Sheridan The One Who Will Be. Sheridan?   
Entil'Zha?  
  
"We die for The One."  
  
So who are you willing to die for, Michael? What are you willing to die for?   
The One. What is The One? Unity. Wholeness. Perhaps the person is only the   
sacrament of the idea. Valen. Jeff. Delenn. John. Perhaps, someday, others.   
Each of them a sign of something greater, something more important, something   
worth dying for. The One. Our oneness, the reconciliation of all peoples in   
peace. Something I can be a part of, something I have been a part of.   
Something that is inscribed on my soul.   
  
I live for The One. I die for The One. I am a Ranger.  
  
Silence descended on the compound, an awed hush that even the birds dared not   
break. Slowly, soundlessly, a procession began, each new Ranger climbing to the   
platform in turn. Once there each offered a solemn salute to the Entil'Zha,   
who, with a smile and a word or two of welcome, accepted them into the corps of   
Rangers. This greeting done, Delenn turned to a table carefully placed behind   
her, spread with rows of Ranger badges, the symbol of their new role. For each   
she selected one pin, affixing with ceremony the symbol of Minbari-Human unity   
over the new Ranger's right breast. A handshake then, and the Ranger moved past   
her, to be congratulated by Sheridan, who likewise shook each one's hand. A   
solemn bow to the masters, who bowed in turn, and the Ranger left the platform.   
  
Again and again the ritual was repeated, a new face each time, but the same   
mantra of motion. And then Michael's feet were on the stairs and the shiver of   
joy told him it was real. He stood at attention in the brilliance of that   
morning, looking down with respect and affection at the petite figure before   
him. His right hand pressed to his heart, then extended to her. "Entil'Zha   
veni!"   
  
Delenn's smile widened as she mimicked the salute, and she spoke of her joy in   
lilting Adronato. Michael's thanks, for all that had gone before, floated   
gently back in the same tongue.   
  
The Entil'Zha turned toward the table on which a scattering of badges remained,   
turned and looked, then looked back at Michael, and turned further to face   
Sheridan. She spoke softly to him, and the President jumped, patting at his   
suit jacket. With a look of relief, he reached into a pocket, extracted a small   
package, and opening it, presented it to Delenn.   
  
With the box in hand, Anla'shok Na turned back to Garibaldi. There on his   
chest, above her own eye level, the tiny Minbari attached the Ranger badge that   
had belonged to Jeffrey Sinclair.   
  
= = =  
  
The courtyard erupted in celebratory noise when at last the ritual was concluded   
and the Rangers dismissed. Delenn and Sheridan and the master teachers left the   
platform by the rear stairs, and were no sooner out of view than the ranks broke   
in a flurry of congratulation.   
  
Michael searched the crowd with his eyes, his quest repeatedly interrupted by   
the greetings of his comrades. The face he sought he could not find. He moved   
through the crowd, offering and accepting best wishes, his peripheral vision   
still keeping watch. The group moved gradually toward the dining hall, where   
the day's first meal awaited. Garibaldi's path took him another way.   
  
Inside the little temple he found the one he sought, off to one side, on a   
bench, in the cool blue light. Michael approached quietly, not to disturb the   
Ranger's meditation, and gently lowered himself to the bench as well. He closed   
his eyes, and turned his mind to his heart. He was not sure how much time had   
passed when the greeting came.   
  
"Congratulations, Michael," the familiar voice intoned. "Welcome to the   
Rangers."  
  
The joy that rumbled through him made him giddy, but even as he spoke his   
thanks, concern seized Garibaldi's heart. "Why weren't you there, Navain?"  
  
The Minbari smiled faintly. "I was there, Michael. I would not have missed   
it."  
  
"You weren't on the platform," Michael protested.  
  
"Because I did not belong there," Navain completed the thought. "My teaching   
here was only a temporary assignment, Michael, as I told you. I return to   
active duty tomorrow." He rose, and Michael followed suit. "I was in the ranks   
of the Rangers, where I belong." Navain smiled proudly. "There is no place I   
would rather be."  
  
Garibaldi studied the face of the Minbari who stood opposite him, his own smile   
gradually growing until it matched the one he saw. Memory and promise were in   
that moment, soul imprinting on soul. Michael's lips formed 'thank you' but no   
sound made it past the lump in his throat.   
  
Navain extended a hand, which the new Ranger clasped eagerly, then spoke a soft   
goodbye. "I leave tomorrow on a new assignment."  
  
The hurt ambushed Michael's heart. He shook his head. "I don't want to lose   
touch with you."  
  
"You've done the work, Michael. You don't need me."  
  
Garibaldi nodded. "I understand." Then with a shrug, he added, "but we both   
miss him very much."  
  
Navain closed his eyes and nodded. "That will always be true."  
  
They embraced one another, colleagues, friends, brothers. Then together they   
turned and together offered the traditional salute to statue of Valen above   
them. Finally they saluted one another. "In Valen's name!" It was a single   
voice.   
  
  
Navain left him there in the temple, and Michael's eyes and his heart returned   
to Valen, to Jeff. Words were useless, pointless, inadequate; all he could do   
was to be here, to savor this moment.   
  
"I thought they were crazy when they told me to look in here for you."  
  
Garibaldi couldn't help but smile at that greeting, as he turned toward   
Sheridan's voice. John strode across the room, hand already outstretched.   
"Congratulations, Michael!"   
  
The new Ranger accepted the hand and the wishes it represented with a broad   
smile. His left arm wrapped around the President's shoulders, clasping him   
close in friendship, an embrace heartily returned. When they stood back to look   
at each other, Sheridan was full of questions.   
  
"How does it feel, Michael? Is it all that you hoped for?" Garibaldi began to   
chuckle as he realized there was no pause long enough for an answer. "Who else   
knows you've done this? Stephen? God, he'll be proud of you."  
  
John stopped for breath finally, and Michael cycled back to the first question.   
"It feels good, John. It feels right." He laughed aloud. "And I don't intend   
to let the good doctor rest until he admits I was right."  
  
Sheridan joined him in the laughter, but then his smile faded. Garibaldi cocked   
his head, concern and curiosity mingling in his narrowed eyes. "What, John?   
What is it?"  
  
John began hesitantly."Michael, there's something ... " His voice trailed away,   
and he shifted uncomfortably.   
  
Garibaldi's face became serious, his voice compassionate. "Just say it, John.   
Truth between us."  
  
John looked, gauging Michael's reaction. "Michael, there were calls ... from   
Lise." The Ranger winced. "C&C told her you weren't on station, but she was   
convinced you were. Finally she demanded to speak to me. "  
  
"I'm sorry, John. You shouldn't have gotten dragged into it."  
  
Sheridan shook his head. "That's all right, Michael. It's just that I didn't   
know how you left it with her, or what you told her. I didn't know what to say   
to her, or whether I should tell her you were here."  
  
"I'm really sorry, John." Michael sighed. "What did you say to her?"  
  
John took a few steps away, added his own sigh, turned to look again at his   
friend. "Not much, Michael. She did most of the talking." He closed the gap   
between them and laid a hand on Garibaldi's shoulder. "She said that she and   
Franz had been talking through a lot of things. She said she wanted you to know   
they were going to try to begin again."  
  
Michael's eyes squeezed shut and he choked out a bitter laugh. "Were those her   
words?" he asked. "Begin again?"  
  
John's hand gripped Michael's shoulder as he nodded, "yeah, that's what she   
said. Michael, I'm sorry."  
  
Garibaldi laughed in earnest. "Don't be, John. I appreciate it, but it's all   
right." He shook off Sheridan's concern and sat down to consider this news.   
"Lise couldn't accept my choosing this life. She needs something very   
different." He stared at the floor as he shared his reflection. "I love her,   
John, and I hope she's happy, but I'm not the man who can make her happy. It's   
better this way."  
  
Sheridan searched the blue eyes, looking for assurance that there was truth in   
the words. Michael stood, patted him on the back and smiled. "It's OK.   
Really."  
  
Almost convinced, the President was nonetheless uncomfortable. Eyes averted, he   
asked, "What now, Michael?"  
  
"Now?" He didn't really know. He was a Ranger now, with all that meant. "I   
guess I'll be given an assignment."  
  
"That," Sheridan replied, stretching the word out over a long breath, "is what I   
wanted to talk to you about."  
  
Michael's head tipped forward, left eyebrow and corner of mouth dipping down in   
challenge. "Mr. President?"  
  
John laughed awkwardly, then he sobered. "Michael, the events of the last week   
have proven that we still have enemies. I wish I didn't have to think in those   
terms, but it doesn't pay to be naive. Security is still an issue, and as long   
as there are covert operations launched against us, I need -- the Alliance needs   
-- someone looking out for our safety." Sheridan took a step closer to his   
former security chief. "I believe in going after the best, Michael. I want you   
in that role."  
  
It was Michael's turn to feel awkward. "John, I appreciate it. I really do.   
And I don't think you understand how much it means to me to know I have your   
respect." The words emerged in an intimate whisper. Flushing, Garibaldi   
brushed past Sheridan's left shoulder. "But I'm not ... available, John." He   
stopped, turning to face his friend. "I'm a Ranger. I'll be given an   
assignment. It's not my choice to make."  
  
"Yes, well," Sheridan stammered, his face coloring, "I have a certain amount of   
influence with Ranger One." The two men laughed, even as Garibaldi began to   
shake his head. John raised a palm to silence him.   
  
"Delenn and I have talked about this at length. We both want you handling   
security and intelligence for the Alliance. Now, it's going to be in your   
orders one way or another ... " He dropped his hand to his side. " ... but I   
was hoping you'd want to do it."   
  
For a long time Garibaldi looked at him: without guilt, without remorse, without   
anger, without pain. He simply looked into the eyes of a friend. Neither spoke   
until Michael put forth a hand. "I do, John, very much." Relieved and   
delighted, Sheridan clasped that hand as Michael added a whispered word of   
thanks.   
  
Sheridan took his leave, extracting from Michael a promise to return to Babylon   
5 as soon as the official orders came through, and offering the promise that no   
surveillance tags would be slapped on him when he did. "Lochley be damned," the   
President laughed. "You work for me now."  
  
Michael watched him leave, then sat, feeling for the first time the effects of   
his sleepless night. His eyes went again to Valen, his heart to Jeff. He let   
himself drift into meditation. Or perhaps it was sleep.   
  
His eyes snapped open as the hands touched his shoulders. "We missed you at   
breakfast." The voice was as gentle as the touch. Drew took a seat beside him   
on the bench. "I missed you."  
  
Michael searched for the right words: an apology for not sharing this special   
morning with his friend, an explanation of his need to be here, congratulations,   
and thanks. Most of all, thanks.   
  
Drew turned his head to look as Michael sucked in the breath to start his   
speech. "Don't start with me," he quipped, one eyebrow arched.   
  
To Garibaldi's open-mouthed stare, he explained, "You're gonna start talking   
about honor and courage and respect. You'll start in about the meaning of being   
a Ranger, about how significant what we've done is, and pretty soon you'll be   
going on about friendship and how important we've been to one another."   
  
Drew looked away, wrinkling his nose as he bit his lip. "Next thing you know,   
I'll be bawling -- probably you too -- and won't we look impressive marching in   
to get our orders with puffy eyes and runny noses?"   
  
The first guffaw echoed off the walls of the temple, and soon, in truth, the   
tears were flowing, as the two dissolved in helpless giggles. Garibaldi caught   
his breath with some effort. He turned his body sideways on the bench, folding   
a leg out of the way. "Drew?"  
  
The young Ranger looked at him. "I know, Michael," he whispered. "Same here."  
  
The older man showed just a trace of a smile. There were no other words needed.   
"Orders, you say?" Garibaldi raised an eyebrow.   
  
The blond stood and straightened his waistcoat. "We can pick them up in the   
Entil'Zha's office. Word is she's handling it personally."  
  
Garibaldi got to his feet. "Well, then," he said as he brushed himself off, "we   
should present ourselves." Smiling, they headed for the door, falling naturally   
into step. At the door they paused, looking backward to the image of Valen.   
Michael's eyes lingered there, but Drew turned to look at his companion. "He   
was right about you," he whispered when Michael met his gaze.   
  
"Yeah," Garibaldi answered, finally secure in that knowledge, "he was."   
  
They left the temple and strode briskly across the sunlit compound. "Would you   
be interested in working in security and intelligence?" Michael inquired of his   
companion.   
  
"I'd be interested in working," the young man laughed, "anywhere they want to   
put me. I can't imagine newly commissioned Rangers get any say in their   
assignments."  
  
Garibaldi held the door of the administration building open for his friend.   
"Yeah," he said grinning broadly, "but I have a certain amount of influence with   
Ranger One."  
  
  
In Valen's Name1 


End file.
